La Vie en Rose
by Gentleman Crow
Summary: Renowned fantasy author Arthur Kirkland is bored. With his muses gone and his editor at his throat, he embarks on a trip to France hoping to find inspiration. However, he may be walking into something much darker and deeper than he ever imagined. US/UK/FR
1. Prologue

**Author's note:** Well hello thar, and welcome welcome to my very first Hetalia fan fic! It took a lot of balls and failed attempts at one shots that will never get to see the light of day again to really get moving on this piece, but I like where it's going and I'm pretty comfortable writing for a fandom of a series I just love to death! This is sort of an experimental fic for me as well so we'll see how it goes :T A little Moulin Rouge, a little of another movie that inspired me that will remain anonymous for now since it would ruin a lot, a lot of shameless anachronisms and slapdash history research and voila! Here we have this. Please do enjoy! And leave me lots of lurves should you enjoy! 3

**La Vie en Rose**

_**Prologue**_

For as long as he could remember, Arthur Kirkland had lead a perfectly ordinary life.

It began in a quaint little cottage at the end of a cobblestone drive in the countryside just outside the metropolitan borders of London, affectionately dubbed Faerie's Grotto by its eccentric initial owner and contractor. Tea was always held promptly at four in the afternoon in the rose garden gazebo, and there were always exactly three ladyfingers, two strawberry tarts, or one scone with clotted cream and homemade preserves for each member of the family to go with the fat-bellied silver pot of none-too-hot Earl Grey. The milkman left their bottles on the stoop without fail once a week, and the postman arrived every day on the dot at one o'clock PM and greeted his mother with the same pleasantries as she tended her flowerbeds. Bedtime came every night when the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed eight, ushering in the clockwork routine of donning pajamas, brushing teeth, a teaspoon of cod liver oil, and ended at last with the story of his choice from the coveted leather bound tome of fairytales handed down the Kirkland family for generations. Every subsequent morning he dressed in his steel gray uniform, knee socks, blazer, and black-striped tie to walk the same misty trek of precisely one and one half mile with his lunch box always in his left hand and his briefcase in the right to the boys academy in town. Every term he brought home perfect marks, and every summer holiday he spent roving the moors and hills around his home in various costumes and weaponry. One day he would be skiffing the lake in the old rowboat as a pirate captain, the next in the mystical verdant woods surrounding Faerie's Grotto as an intrepid adventurer Prince in search of dragons and unicorns.

Though as all young boys must do, Arthur grew into a young man, and his life remained perfectly ordinary even as it changed. Bedtime no longer came with fairytales and cod liver oil, and slowly moved back to nine, and then even ten o'clock, but always stayed the same. Stuffed mythical beasts, knight's swords and pirate hats were gradually replaced with the same classic books, all the latest records, prints of popular films and rugby gear that filled his boyhood friends' rooms. He graduated from the academy, and then moved on to the same secondary school all his classmates did further away from home. There, he continued to earn perfect marks and spend his summers at home, interrupted only by the occasional rugby injury and late night excursions with adventurous friends.

The only thing to truly disrupt the perfectly ordinary life he enjoyed up until his teenage years was the shadow of the Second World War that loomed high over all of Europe. Luckily, he remained young enough, and far away enough from the epicenters of destruction and pain that it seemed like no more than one of the epic conflicts in the fairy stories he continued to take solace in despite his apathetic teen age as his family listened huddled together to the reports of troops advancing, retreating and clashing on the wireless. If anything, it only made his life even more predictable and ordinary, as every week there would be precise rations on food and other essentials that reduced even shopping to a precise science. The wireless broadcasts were even always on at the same hour of the evening, though unlike many boys his age, Arthur preferred to leave the room after a few moments of highlights of the day's happenings and go upstairs to his bedroom where he would translate his fears and trepidations into drawings of a bold and noble unicorn that would be the savior of his fairy kingdom. He called the courageous beast Keiran, and alongside an often belligerent and cranky phoenix they rid the world of evil and brought a sense of peace and harmony to all. He never showed his creations to a soul, and, embarrassed as any young lad of his age, he bound all his drawings and manuscripts in butcher paper and stashed them under his bed, never to be heard of again. He banished all notions of fantasy and folly from his ordinary, logical mind and applied himself fully to school and taking out his aggressions on the rugby field instead of on paper.

So it went on, the warring and schooling and rugby tackling, until at last the drudgery of grade school had evaporated. Arthur was class speaker at his perfectly ordinary, dull, and far too long graduation ceremony, and gave a perfectly prim and proper, artfully composed speech. Despite the climate of war, at the end of that last summer holiday just as everyone had expected of him, he attended Oxford University and spent a rather uneventful four years studying classic literature. He read every book in the canon, no more, and no less, studied the masters of every culture and learned their craft in all of their subtle flairs and nuances. He had a brief, and fruitless affair with a plain brunette one year older than him, and spent most of his time in the ancient library, surrounding himself with the words of wise souls long since past.

Once he was awarded his prestigious degree in literature, Arthur Kirkland returned home to Faerie's Grotto where life was as it always had been. Tea was always at four, the post came at one, his mother always left precisely ten perfect buds on each of her rose bushes, and the milk arrived on the doorstep once every week. He moved back into his old room, filled with all his old things, tacked up his Oxford pennant, his framed diploma, and sat down on his old bed, wondering just what in the hell to do with his life. By then, the war had ended, and though the Allied Forces had eventually triumphed, England was not left without scars. War had taxed the whole nation, financially and emotionally. London was still in shambles, food was rationed even more harshly than ever, and everyone seemed many more years older and more exhausted than the years the war had taken to win. Arthur took a step back, looked at it all, looked back on his perfectly ordinary life and realized just exactly what he could do with it. England needed a hero to raise it from the gray soot of their living grave of wartime. It was time to revisit Keiran the unicorn.

Much to Arthur's surprise, pleasant as it was, the timid little bundle of paper was still shoved in the darkest, dirtiest corner of his bed. He brought it out, read through his old thoughts again, and with his new, sharp and brilliantly trained literary lens, he repenned and reillustrated the story for the children of Britain and beyond with all the fiery passion in his heart. From start to finish, he created a lavish, cunningly crafted world in word and stunning art alike with deep loyalties and even deeper resentments. He painted his valiant heroes pitted against the stunningly sinister villains against a backdrop of intricate, innovative lands in the first novel of what he knew could be the answer to what so many people were seeking. For months, Arthur created his masterpiece, and the moment it was finished he hurled it into the post to England's premiere publisher of children's novels for their consideration.

A few months later, a raving letter of congratulations arrived in the post box at Faerie's Grotto at precisely one o'clock.

The Sabrehaven Saga, as he had called it, was an instant success. Children and their parents alike were snatching it greedily from bookshop shelves, and many establishments were backordered for weeks. Keiran the noble, brave, and goodhearted unicorn and his beautiful kingdom of Sabrehaven were, indeed, exactly what a suffering nation needed to absorb themselves in to forget the world they lived in, and to enter a world in which good always triumphed and even in the darkest hour there was always light. That was how Arthur had escaped from the cold, indifferent fog of war that mercifully never touched his life, and he was thrilled to be able to share it.

After the first book he wrote several more, all of which were just as readily snatched from shelves and coveted. His fame only continued to grow and spread, his books turned into comics for the Sunday paper, even dramas on the wireless right after school hours for children to listen to when they arrived home. All of England held its breath while renowned author Arthur Kirkland brought them time and time again into the world of his imagination and at last to the final installment, where Keiran finally vanquished the lord of darkness and brought freedom and prosperity to his kingdom once again in the most thrilling war of heroes and vast armies anyone could remember reading. It was hailed as a masterpiece, a marvel, a truly great piece of fantasy literature to be held against such greats as the works of Carroll, Lewis, Potter, or Barrie. Reviews and fanmail poured into the editor's office in a deluge of love and admiration, and once the initial celebration died down, he turned cheerfully to Arthur and had asked him what he planned to write next.

Arthur was horrified to discover he had absolutely no answer at all.

He had little idea what to do with his life when he had returned from college, and it was only in half madness that he had ever decided to write down Keiran's story at all. It was a story borne from childhood fears and uncertainties, shaped with a more mature mind on literature, but other than that, Arthur was faced with the all too horrific realization once more. He had lived a perfectly ordinary life. He could no more tease a titillating novel out of daily teatime than he could out of brushing his teeth in the morning. There was simply nothing left in his heart to write about. He had adored the fantasy stylings of the brothers Grimm and Hans Christan Andersen, but they had already taken just about every other story he could think of. There was nary an original thought left in his skull, or so his frazzled and frustrated editor had brutally told him after he had once again brought him a thinly veiled copy of yet another fairytale.

And just like that, Arthur Kirkland was just another man once more. His well of inspiration ran dry, his muses returned to their home on Olympus, and the drabness of post Second World War England slowly began to seep into his bones as well. Winter had come and brought with it the icy gray rain and clouds that seemed to steal the color from an already wan and washed nation. Arthur confined himself to Faerie's Grotto, sitting miserably by the fire and sketching scene after scene of not his beloved cast of characters, but rather the fat, old family tabby cat who was prone to often hilarious bouts of senility and gluttony.

The entire winter he sat brooding in his favorite flannel robe, which was infuriatingly ordinary, furious with himself and furious with the kingdom of Sabrehaven for being his only comfort and his only curse. The whole of England, along with his editor, was waiting anxiously for what the genius author Arthur Kirkland had in store and his mind was a vast, barren wasteland, a dry sponge he wrung again and again only to tear the thing to shreds. Inspiration stubbornly refused to come, for all his life he had done absolutely nothing else to possibly inspire him. Everything he had created he had done so by drawing on the sacrifices and hardships of others to craft his story, snatches of words read by a stranger on the wireless, drawings of heroes in books, and ideals he had never had to uphold. He personally had not the foggiest idea of what it really meant to be honorable, to be courageous, to fall in love. Yet there he sat, purveyor of virtues and adventures that were nothing more than a figment of his imagination. However, the day he realized everything he had ever written was a fraud, was the very same day he realized the answers to all of his woes as well after a smashed teacup, a terrified cat, and a startling epiphany.

Arthur Kirkland was bored, and had been for quite some time.

All he had to do was make his life perfectly unordinary and alleviate it. If the one thing out of the ordinary in his life had inspired him before, it would only stand to reason it could all too easily happen again. A change of scenery, a change of lifestyle, experiencing something he had never experienced before, it was all so simple he could have kicked himself. He needed to get out of Faerie's Grotto, and fast, the only question was where.

Arthur loathed the idea of going anywhere on the British Isles, so they were definitely out of the question. Though all he knew of any other lands of the world he actually lived in, rather than the fantasy one, was a distant memory from history and geography class, so he ventured out at last into town and bought a travel brochure to aide in his decision and crossed out his homeland's pages in thick black ink right away. In post war Europe there were several more places he had to eliminate for reasons he knew all too well and he spent a rainy afternoon in the parlor inking them out and perusing the rest.

Countless pages flipped and turned and rustled into oblivion as Arthur scowled and rejected each country. Austria, Denmark, Switzerland; all of them were filled with rich history and beautiful landscapes, but nothing of that fabulous, interesting, inspiring spark he was looking for. Every page was filled with ancient castles, verdant forests, and quaint cityscapes that were all too like the small village in which he had lived his entire ordinary life. Not a single page enticed his senses or made his heart race the way he knew it should, until at last he turned past one, and was instantly transported to a lush photograph of the Eiffel Tower at night with all of Paris rambling beneath it, twinkling with wild, flirtatious lights.

Paris; the city of Light, city of cabaret, burlesque, and the original center of all things sensual, scandalous, and lascivious and located in France, a country of cuisine, of beauty and art and music where love was the only law and anything at all was possible. For years he had scoffed and denounced it, mocked the French and their strange ideals and loose morals, but the more he stared at that page, the more he envisioned the smell of fresh baguettes in the air and the sound of musettes crooning on the banks of the Seine, the more appealing it became. Paris was legendary for its mystique and its rich history steeped in tales of love, war, betrayal and passion that had woven an intricate and beautiful tapestry of culture and experience over its history even older than his mother country. If there was nothing to stimulate him there, he decided, there was no hope for him at all, and he promptly booked a ferry and train ticket straight into the pulsing heart of France and all its colorful flair.

Arthur only looked back once at his childhood home the day he left with all his earthly belongings in a bulging leather suitcase, for he vowed not to return until he had found himself at last. He waved just once to his parents who held each other in trepidation in the doorway and bid him farewell, not quite understanding the boldly foolish move their son was making, but supporting him nonetheless. When Arthur made up his mind to do something, he was never one to be dissuaded and on the matter of Paris, his mind was soundly made up. He knew not what on earth he was walking into, but for once, it was a good feeling. It was time for his perfectly ordinary life to become extraordinary, and not only in ink and paper. And so it was that famed author Arthur Kirkland walked down the cobblestone path to the bus stop one final time, leaving everything comfortable, safe, and familiar behind him, and set foot at last on the first step of his very own real life adventure.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **And welcome at last to chapter 1! Aaaa sorry that took like forever but I traipsed off to Vegas for a drunken weekend in celebration of a dear friend's birthday and was henceforth delayed for that merriment and the detoxification thereafter! That and some fruitless job hunting! But at last I can truly begin this fic! Ohoho, I did warn there would be some AMERICA popping up and I made good! It seems our hero is a bit twitterpated, what shall become of this? Read on and we shall see!

**Chapter 1**

_In which our intrepid hero sets off on his journey and meets a boorish, yet obnoxiously charming American._

Arthur stood at the helm of the cheery little ferry merrily beginning its chugging away across the English Channel with his stuffed suitcase at his feet, his tweed coat over his three-piece suit drawn close against the frigid wind, and his fedora clasped in his hands as he leaned over the railing anxious to watch France arrive. The waters that day flowed darkly beneath icy gray clouds that chilled the air and obscured the sun, and a light mist settled and churned contentedly on the banks of old Britain as they pulled slowly away from land. Edith Piaf's sultry, impassioned voice crooned the lyrics to _La Vie en Rose_ from the gramophone on board and the gulls chimed in overhead as they circled the pier and followed the vessel out into the calm waters that lapped rhythmically against the flat, purposeful hull. They rocked the stately and sturdy ferry at an easy pace that was rather soothing rather than nauseating, Arthur found, as speed and the wind picked up and he was transported further away from home. Cold gray England would soon be but a distant memory of monotony, and that both terrified and excited the author all at once.

The day he had selected to leave his homeland behind proved to be a particularly cold and bitter one at the end of winter, one where the elements reared their ugly heads once more to remind the inhabitants of the island nation that it would return once more in a year's time, but he chose to remain out on the deck in spite of it. A spray of excited water peppered his face in frosty flecks of surf as his shaggy blond hair whipped and stung across his face and into his emerald green eyes so adoringly focused on the horizon. He pushed the unruly mop back behind his ears with a huff, anxiously wishing the winds would calm enough to put his hat back on and the fog would clear enough to actually see to the other side of the narrow swatch of water dividing England from the mainland of Europe.

Despite the minor annoyances of water travel and weather, however, he was still pleased he decided to go the ferry and train route to France rather than booking an airplane ticket. He wanted to enjoy the scenery and the trip first hand and fully immerse himself rather than watching through a paltry little circle of glass thousands of feet above the earth. He had barely been outside the borders of his small town, much less an entirely new country, and he knew precious little about the culture he was about to fully immerse himself in. He spoke a smattering of French from secondary school classes and from reading some of the French greats in college, he knew he disliked brie cheese, champagne was only champagne if it came from Champagne, and Edith Piaf had the voice of an angel, but otherwise he was completely ignorant of the country that had been England's greatest friend and greatest enemy all at once. All around him the other passengers chatted with one another in either rapid, excited French or drawling English, and he wondered just how much they all knew about their destination.

They could be returning home, off on business, on a pleasure trip, or even perhaps seeking something new and thrilling like him. He actually rather enjoyed not knowing, for in the void his ignorance left his long dormant imagination began to flourish once more. Two businessmen chatted brusquely and with little interest in one another, clearly on a diplomatic mission for some company where they probably worked in offices clear on opposite sides of the building. Yet, as the trip went on they would discover they were distantly related somehow through a long, twisted, and fascinatingly sordid family tale. The little girl clutching her mother's skirts with wide blue eyes taking in everything was on her very first ferry ride to France, perhaps to visit a beloved older sister who was marrying a handsome Frenchman finally come home from the war. They would visit all the fancy boutiques and she would be dressed all in white lace, and she would be the prettiest flower girl in the gardens of Versailles in all its bloody and beautiful history.

Arthur smiled privately to himself at the spontaneous and wonderful, brief little vignettes he crafted in his head, and instantly knew he had made the right choice. For a brief moment, he felt just like his old self again, filled with stories and characters he could bring to life on a page with but a deft stroke of his pen. Edith Piaf's words only rang in complete accord with him as her song belted to its robust finale speaking of life, love, and the ultimate of happiness. La Vie en Rose, the good life; the proverbial perfect existence heroes of great novels had fallen trying to achieve, the very thing Keiran and his armies of good had been fighting for and the very thing he sought for himself. He could only hope it lay in lands unknown, a precious gem waiting to be discovered.

The beautiful melody swooned and filled the air as the cruise went on leaving a white trail of foam in its wake streaking across the water. Arthur stayed where he was right at the helm, letting the gentler winds of the open waters toss his hair and his coat, looking wistfully to the sky and watching the victorious golden sun finally breaking through the thick layer of gloom in boldly seeking rays. The boat rambled on, the passengers milling about, ducking in and out of the cabin, checking their luggage, going downstairs to get a different vantage point, snapping photos and laughing with their companions and perfect strangers alike. Only Arthur remained like a master marble carving, poised elegantly with his eyes to the sky and bathed in the pale golden light of the emerging sun, so lost in his reverie and his excitement he failed to notice the pair of eyes fixated on him from the adjacent railing that had been for quite some time.

All at once, a tall, slender figure clad in a rustically fragrant leather bomber jacket with a dark fleece trim sidled up next to him at the foremost of the small ferry. Mildly alarmed, but paying him no mind, Arthur spared him only the briefest of glances away from the thinning clouds overhead. The man beside him stayed while his black-gloved hands searched the inner pockets of his jacket and finally found a rumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. He expertly shook out one singular white cylinder from the sleeve and put it directly to his lips, which Arthur followed with curious green eyes to the face of a grinning, bespectacled man with lively blue eyes and windswept sandy hair. He lit his cigarette jauntily with a silver Zippo that had a single bright gold star enameled onto the side and clicked it neatly shut, replacing it in his pocket as he turned and leaned against the railing beside the intrigued author to smoke. Oddly, he made no attempt to talk to him just yet, simply gazed upward with his azure irises as if attempting to focus in on just what was so fascinating. They watched the sky for a moment together in silence that way, tobacco smoke wafting through the salt air, side by side in wordless communion.

"You know, I always wonder about people like you. People who look at the sky all the time," the stranger said at length in an effervescent American accent.

Arthur finally glanced over at his strikingly handsome face again, his own cheeks coloring slightly, but said nothing. The American grinned, the corners of his radiant eyes crinkling attractively, and shrugged as he took a long, thoughtful drag on his smoldering cigarette and exhaled once more over the edge of the ferry.

"I can't help but wonder what in the hell it is you're looking at," he continued with a jovial laugh, "Always figured it was something I just plain couldn't see."

Arthur couldn't help but smirk at that, and drew himself up to his full height with a playfully haughty shrug.

"Well, perhaps it isn't something we're seeing that you're not, but rather something we're thinking about that you're not," he replied.

The American looked struck by that answer for a moment, or perhaps just because the blond haired Brit was finally talking, then promptly threw his head back in booming laughter.

"I guess you've got me there!" he guffawed, grinned, and then thrust out a hand forcefully, "Name's Alfred, Alfred Jones, pleasure to meet you!"

Arthur turned and took the proffered hand with a politely firm shake and a smile.

"Arthur Kirkland, a pleasure indeed," he concurred.

A spark of recognition flashed across Alfred's eyes and his face lit up with fiery excitement.

"No way! Arthur Kirkland? You aren't the guy who wrote all those unicorn books or whatever are you?" he asked rapidly.

Oddly pleased to be recognized by an American, especially such a boldly good-looking one, Arthur nodded humbly once.

"Ah, the very same. You've read them then?"

"Me? Oh hell no, but my kid brother absolutely loves you! We just started getting them back home! Across the pond or whatever you guys say! HEY MATT! You'll NEVER guess who I just found over here!" Alfred yelled across the boat with his hands cupped over his mouth to amplify a voice that had little need of amplification.

Arthur's lower lid twitched, all of a sudden far less charmed by the American than he initially hoped he would be. He turned to look in the direction he was yelling and out of the crowd like a specter he never even knew was there came a much slighter, timid young man who looked very much like Alfred, though hardly the child he was imagining. He was burdened down with what he guessed was every piece of luggage the two brothers had brought along, his light hair was longer with a slight wave to it, and though he too wore a pair of glasses perched delicately on his nose his own bright blue eyes were much softer and subdued behind them. He wore a heavy camel colored coat with a white fleece trim, and atop his head he sported an inexplicable pair of flight goggles. The expression on his face was distinctly put upon as he shuffled painfully over covered in attaches and suitcases and looked imploringly up at his brother.

"You could have helped you kn-" the younger of the two began in a soft voice barely above a whisper.

"Took you long enough!" Alfred cut in before he could even finish, and clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder to display him to his new companion, "Matt! You'll NEVER guess who this is!"

Matthew sighed deeply and looked up at Arthur, almost seeming to apologize.

"I don-"

"This is Arthur Kirkland! You know! The unicorn guy!" Alfred proclaimed with zeal, interrupting Matthew again.

"I'll have you know that my novels are about so much more than just the damn unicorn!" Arthur finally snapped, balling his fists and bristling, "They're about loyalty, love, sacrifice, and honor! And I have plenty more thoughts in my head than just-!"

Arthur stopped his tirade, however, as he finally noticed the look of sheer adoration that had spread over Matthew's glowing face. He stared at him, slack jawed, cheeks flushed and sweet blue eyes glittering with his gloved hands clasped at his chest, looking terrified to speak and uncontrollably excited all at once.

"A-Are you really him? THE Arthur Kirkland?" he whispered, "D-Did you really write The Sabrehaven Chronicles?"

Arthur couldn't help but forget his rage to smile tenderly at the younger of the two brothers so enchanted by simply being in his presence.

"Indeed I did, and I'm very glad to hear you're enjoying it so far," he replied with a gentlemanly bow.

Matthew's face lit up even more as he gasped in delight.

"It's beyond phenomenal! Th-They're the most amazing books I've ever read!" he gushed, "I-I waited in line forever, and I can't put them down when I finally get them! They really… Mean the world to me. I-I can't believe I'm really meeting you!"

Arthur smiled radiantly and his cheeks flushed bright red, more flattered and thrilled at Matthew's earnest, innocent praise than all of the fan mail he had ever received combined.

"It's just as exciting to meet you, trust me. There would be no Sabrehaven if it weren't for loyal blokes like you," he answered jovially.

Matthew continued to stare in silent awe for a moment, blue eyes glittering, faceted gems of adoration in his gentle face, then suddenly gasped and flailed as if struck hard by memory.

"Oh goodness! I just remembered! I-I picked up the last novel while we were in England because it hasn't come overseas! I haven't gotten a chance to read it yet but! If you don't mind, um… If you could? Er… What I mean is… If it wouldn't be too much trouble…? I would, um-" he started, voice as tiny as ever, going for the satchel he had slung over his shoulder and rooting around in it shyly.

The author didn't even need to ask to know what he meant, and chuckled.

"I would be delighted to autograph it for you," he interjected as he reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his pen.

Matthew finally unearthed his copy of the final chapter of Keiran's epic tale from his baggage and handed it over in trembling hands to the master of his most beloved fantasy. Arthur took it, opened it to the first page and deftly signed the inside cover with a note to the young man to, "_Always keep dreaming- Arthur Kirkland_". Allowing a few moments for the ink to dry in the cool wind, he snapped the book shut neatly and handed it back to its rightful owner. He took it back as if he were being handed an ancient, magical relic and closed his eyes in sheer bliss as he hugged it preciously to his chest.

"Thank you… Thank you so much!" Matthew whispered, on the verge of tears.

"Don't mention it. And you'll enjoy the ending, that much I assure you!" Arthur proclaimed with a wink and a friendly grin.

Impatient witness to it all, Alfred finished his cigarette and flicked it into the water thoughtlessly as he watched the exchange of the autograph and praise. He wore a crooked, but devoted smirk the entire time, and reached out to ruffle his younger brother's hair affectionately the moment he could insert himself back into the conversation.

"Aw see? Now what am I always telling you about just speaking up?" he chided loudly to make himself known again.

Matthew wrinkled his nose but briefly at him and huddled his book away, saying nothing more. Alfred laughed heartily and turned his blazing gaze back onto their new companion, capturing his emerald irises slyly.

"Told you he was a fanatic. This is Matt Williams, by the way! Totally forgot to introduce him to you! Williams because he's only my half brother, he was born in Canada actually! But we grew up together, thick as thieves! Especially with Mattie to take all the blame when we got in trouble right?" the older of the brothers proclaimed, laughing a bit too loudly and slinging an arm around his sibling.

The grimace on Matthew's face suggested there was much more truth to that statement than the joke Alfred had meant it to be, and Arthur quickly decided to divert the subject.

"Ah, I see. Interesting! So what were you doing in England, then? And what brings you to France?" he asked with a nervous smile, hoping the boisterous American would take the bait.

Luckily he did, untangling himself from his brother and spreading his hands charmingly.

"Nothing more than pleasure, my friend!" he answered with a wink, "Well that, and a little business for me in England. Mattie's still got some relatives in France, so while we were here we figured why the hell not? See the City of Light"

Intrigued, the Brit canted his head to the side and leaned comfortably against the railing of the ferry again.

"Really? What kind of business do you do?" he queried.

"Sales," came the immediate and simple reply, "Hoping to expand some of our markets overseas. You guys could REALLY use some good American made stuff over here, if you know what I mean!"

The perpetual grin on Alfred's face turned slightly predatory and teasing, and he leaned in closer toward the other.

"Better question is, what's a big shot author like you doing riding a little ferry like this out to France with us common folk?" he continued.

Taken aback by the brazen question, Arthur froze for several moments, processing his tumultuous emotions attached to the subject.

"Uh well! That is to say! I only-! I merely-! It's a matter of-! It's not like I'm a millionaire or anything!" he defended curtly with an accusing finger pointed at the American, "And it just so happens my next novel is going to be set in France, so I'm going for research! I need to be able to see the REAL trip to France! Not live like some disinterested aristocrat who only cares about flying first class and seeing only the highlights! It's going to be about uh-! The common folk! Like you say! In the m-middle ages!"

Alfred took his turn to look completely flabbergasted and ever so slightly amused at the touchy reply he received, quirking an eyebrow and laughing.

"You don't have to say all that! The correct response would have been, 'I'm going because I want to, and it sounds like an adventure!' That's all! You don't have to excuse it!" he asserted with a carefree smile, completely unfazed by the incensed words he had endured.

A bright flush spread swiftly over Arthur's cheeks, heart skipping a beat in his chest and any further ranting silenced on his lips. He hazarded looking up into the beguiling blue depths of Alfred's eyes once more, their gazes meeting for a single moment of hope that perhaps, he had met someone who felt the same way he did.

"I mean, isn't that why anyone goes anywhere? To have an adventure? To see things and do things you never imagined? Otherwise what would be the point of leaving your house at all? You might as well be a shut-in! A kook in a nuthouse!" Alfred filled the silence cheerfully with a shrug, but never took his eyes from the other.

Arthur could scarcely believe the words coming from the tall, brash, thoughtless, boorish, obnoxious and yet still magnetic sandy-haired mysterious stranger. One moment he could be spewing completely unfiltered, nigh unto offensive sentiments, but just as quickly that same shrewd, knowing gleam would come to his eye and he would feel so utterly transparent it left him breathless. There was something raw, unfettered, and free about him. A self-given permission to say, do, and be as he pleased; something Arthur had never known in his sheltered life.

"Yes, I-I… Suppose you're very right…" the spellbound author breathed at last.

Alfred snorted through his nose, shrugged and casually turned away, leaning on the rail and lifting his bespectacled gaze back to the sky.

"Reckon that looking at the sky to think thing really works, huh?" he mused, crossing his arms and closing his eyes against the winds carelessly tossing his hair.

A shy, half smile quirked Arthur's lips as he too turned back to look up into the sky where the clouds had become but airy white streaks across a crystal blue strata. The sun shone triumphantly down through their taffeta veils and bathed the ferry and all of her passengers in warm, welcoming golden light.

"I'm rarely wrong about such things," Arthur murmured wryly.

"Except… Now every time I look at the sky I won't have any choice but to think of you."

The breath immediately left Arthur's chest. His heart stopped in dread and hope at once and his body went distinctly weightless even grounded solidly on the iron deck of the sturdy little ferry. He whipped his head around, gawking, his mouth making the motions of speech, but no sound issued forth and his body froze rigid with his hands gripping the railing. Alfred let his openly flirtatious statement hang in the air a few moments, then turned toward the flustered Brit with a mischievous grin and a mock salute.

"Well, guess we better get going, ferry's gonna be docking soon! See you around… Unicorn guy," he crooned invitingly as he peeled away from the railing, slung an arm around his brother, and vanished into the crowded cabin of the ferry just as mysteriously as he appeared.

In his wake he left Arthur, staring, the wind toying playfully with his richly blonde and unkempt mane, the mainland of France just beginning to appear behind him. Caught somewhere between a waking dream and conscious illusion, he was unaware of anything until the loud and booming voice of the captain shouted out in French, and then in begrudging English that they were about to dock in Northern France. With an urgent gasp Arthur whirled back around, and his vision filled with the bustling, busy port at last.

The French ferry terminal was but a teeming blur distantly layered against the bright blue water glittering brightly in the sun, but to the eager young author it may as well have been Atlantis rising from the deep. The cream white buildings capped in chateau style roofs, welcoming docks stretching out into cerulean waves to embrace his vessel, and the distant glow of yellow sun on pale green leaves just beginning to show their waxy naked bodies to the new warmth after the long winter painted a lush portrait of the fantasy he was entering. The lackadaisical murmurs of the musettes, the smell of baguettes on the balmy breeze, and the decadent sights of Paris were one step closer. He was nearly there. Only a train ride stood between him and the plunge into culture and madness he hoped would awaken the genius that had dozed off inside of him. Though even as he readied his bag, replaced his fedora on his head at last, and rode at the helm of the ferry for the remainder of the voyage excitedly, his mind would not be persuaded from sparing the American one brief thought.

In everything he could have possibly imagined and had imagined for his trip, never in his wildest dreams would he ever have envisioned them being invaded by a boisterous laugh, rugged leather, the pungent odor of Lucky Strikes, and piercing blue eyes. Yet invaded they were, for all Arthur could think of as he pulled into the beautiful port in France, was if Alfred had truly meant it when he had said he would see him again.

Wow, end of chapter already? But we just started! Thanks for making it this far! If you enjoyed it please do drop me a line and tell me so c: It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside! And stay tuned for me!


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **And here we have chapter 2! I was hoping to get this out a week after chapter 1, but hey! Soon enough eh? And this is a good meat and potatoes long chapter too! I'm going to attempt to get one chapter out every week or so, just because I'm enjoying writing this so very much and I'd really like to get to the main story sooner or later hehe. Also I promise promise Francis will show up soon. After all, they are in Paris now c:! Also a big giant thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far! It really means a lot to me. That said, continue to enjoy "La Vie en Rose" X3

**Chapter 2**

_In which Arthur has an altogether fascinating voyage by train that has little to do with the train at all._

The little ferry sidled up coquettishly against her favorite dock at the end of the short jaunt across the English Channel as she glided into sunny Calais, France to discharge her passengers. Arthur lingered until the bitter end and was one of the very last in line to get off, banishing thoughts of the rakish American forcefully in order to fully enjoy his arrival in France. So enraptured had he been, he was horrified to realize he could barely remember even seeing the port come into view and had been staring at the same spot on the same building the entire time yet had no idea what it looked like at all. And here he was supposed to be absorbing everything he could about a new place and a new way of life to inspire him and yet thinking only of some strange man.

He shook his head forcefully as he milled his way down the gangplank behind a French couple already arguing about something and cursed himself for getting so irredeemably deviated. After the spell had passed, he couldn't possibly fathom why he had been so bewitched by the man in the first place. There really was very little that was charming or appealing at all about Alfred Jones, or Americans in general, he decided. The way he had nigh unto abused his meek brother right in front of him, that cocky grin, his brazen flirtatiousness, even the smell of his noxious, filthy American cigarettes; all of it culminated to a portrait of a boor that he would have no further ado with.

Even his bizarrely animated face, the drab sandy color of his hair, the steely cold blue of his eyes, and the irritating bravado with which he wore a leather bomber jacket as if he were some sort of hero fighter pilot grated on Arthur's nerves. He fumed, growling and grumbling under his breath as he walked down the gangplank and onto the dock, and his hand gripped angrily at the handle of his suitcase. His eyes darted around the crowd, glowering, searching for any sign of Alfred and his sibling, but like a spirit or a fairy out of one of his beloved legends and myths, there was no trace of him at all.

"Good riddance…" Arthur muttered under his breath, and mentally bid him farewell.

After all, he had tainted his arrival into the land he had chosen for his personal adventure with feelings and thoughts he was none too keen to be grappling with. However, pests were all too easily swatted and eliminated, and like nothing more than a pesky fly silenced forever with a smartly rolled newspaper, he would plague him no more. Arthur's thoughts on the matter were resolute and definitive, and at last, he fully banished Alfred Jones' Cheshire face from his mind and turned his gaze to the bustling port to take it all in with a clear canvas of the mind.

The port of Calais, once he finally took the time to gaze upon it, was breathtakingly beautiful. The buildings of the ferry station sat regally on the rocky shores in all of their stately elegance and decadence, watching the new arrivals with their towering glass windows sparkling in the sun set in calm, rich creamy white accented in intricate Baroque scrollwork and dark, brooding roofs. Just beyond it, the town was just visible in a few hazy, tantalizing glimpses of cobblestone streets, quaint chateaus and rows of apartments covered in seductively creeping ivy and window boxes of sinful red and pink roses.

Wondering if he had time to explore the enclave of pastoral beauty and peace before he had to depart, Arthur checked the clock high above the station keeping ancient watch over its domain from the highest tower. The elaborate hands read nearly five in the afternoon. Stunned, Arthur actually stopped dead in the middle of the constant flow of foot traffic and stared as realization washed over him. For the first time in his life he had missed afternoon tea. He grinned slowly, eyes glittering, and found that simple little revelation to be one of the most wonderful, liberating sensations he had ever been graced with.

After a private moment of glee, Arthur finally dug his train ticket out of the breast pocket of his coat and checked the time printed onto it. His train would be departing in less than half an hour, he was dismayed to discover, but he supposed the ferry company did it purposefully to keep people flowing in and out of their ports efficiently. Left with no choice, he hefted his suitcase again and made his way through the gates of the ferry station and down the street to catch his train.

The black and silver streamlined mechanical behemoth pulled into the station wreathed in white steam, hissing cheerfully and thundering along the stalwart steel tracks still beneath it. It was a welcome sight for the Brit, who knew all too well that the war had taken a heavy toll on them, as well as the engines that traversed their deft black trails across Europe. The one that had arrived to spirit him across the countryside into Paris was an older model as well, still complete with its sleeper, passenger, and dining cars lined in fine velvet curtains and rich, antique oak paneling. An altogether delighted Arthur was first in line to board and handed his ticket off to the conductor with a hurried, '_merci beaucoup_,' as he dashed down the corridor to find the finest compartment in which to enjoy his journey.

His feet tread on a brand new plush velour carpet lining the floors, the brass handle holders outside each passenger compartment had been replaced with electric lights and everything shone with a fresh coat of lacquer, but otherwise the train cars retained their musty antique odor and classic charms. Arthur trotted briskly down the center aisle, peering into each individual room and inspecting it before he settled at last on one in a car situated near the middle of the train. It was far enough away from the engine, close enough to amenities, and just out of the way and nondescript enough he might just be passed over by all the other passengers and enjoy a quiet trip alone with his thoughts and inspiration.

The wooden and glass paneled door slid open with a pleasantly smooth hiss and Arthur stealthily crept in with a glance over his shoulder as if someone might invite themselves along. Much to his delight, no one did. Inside and with the door securely shut, the author stashed his suitcase securely in the luggage compartment above one side of the plush seats along with his fedora, peeled off his slightly damp tweed coat and hung it on the rack, and after a moment of thought, removed his suit jacket as well to leave him in only his crisp white shirt, forest green vest and black tie. The train compartment was pleasantly warm and dry after a long, chilly sea voyage, and the soft cushions of the seat welcomed him lovingly as he sat down and reclined back into their cozy embrace.

Several uninterrupted minutes of solitude and relaxation later, Arthur heard the conductor give the last call for boarding, followed shortly after by the sharp departing whistle of the engine as it gave a jaunty little lurch into motion. He sat up eagerly and pushed back the curtain, peering out the window and grinning as he watched the station slide past and finally out of view. The milky white painted buildings and steel reinforcements melted away into cottages and streets as the train picked up speed, baring its passengers through Calais and out at last into the dewy green countryside just awakening after the long winter.

Arthur watched with a soft sigh of bliss. His breath fogged the polished glass, and he settled in to the pleasant jostling of the train, the nostalgic clacking of the wheels and the distant rumbling breath of the engine. Late passengers scurried past his compartment, banging luggage against his door and chattering noisily, but none of them entered so the Brit paid them no mind. He was too lost in the rolling fields and hills sweeping past his window and into his imagination, painting it in vivid colors of newness and intrigue. He sat oblivious to even the loud, booming English ringing through the car ahead of his and still clearly audible, the slam of the doors connecting them together bursting open, and then a peal of triumphant laughter.

Loudly rapid footsteps galloped down the hall, but halted abruptly, and the voice died out altogether as a pair of crystalline blue eyes glanced into the compartment occupied by one sole passenger. A hand waved away a burdened companion hurriedly, and as he begrudgingly trudged off, dragging suitcases and whimpering, the door to Arthur's private sanctum slid cheerfully open. His peaceful fantasy shattered, and his head jerked up toward the doorway where, propped crookedly against it with the very same Cheshire grin plastered to his handsome face, was none other than Alfred Jones.

"Bloody hell! Y-You!" Arthur sputtered in sheer shock.

Alfred laughed boisterously and shook his head.

"Yeah me. So very nice to see you again too!" he said pointedly, making the Brit wince.

"Sorry," Arthur ground out between his teeth with a scowl, "You just… Surprised me."

Alfred crossed his arms over his chest and one leg over the other, whistling through his teeth.

"Fancy meeting you again, though huh? Who would have thought we'd have the same train too! And even staring at the sky again," he replied coyly, "Doesn't that ever get old?"

Arthur's face colored and his lower lid twitched as he balled his fists defensively.

"I wasn't staring at the sky again, I was watching the scenery! Everyone watches the scenery on a train! What else is there to do? And what are you doing just barging into other people's compartments anyway? Don't you Americans know it's common bloody courtesy to knock?" he spat.

His seething only seemed to amuse Alfred more, and he slid fully into the compartment to sprawl across the bench across from the flustered author.

"Dunno, I think I forgot to read that page of the handbook of stuffy British social rules before I left," he quipped back with a snicker.

"It's not just a BRITISH rule," a horrified Arthur retaliated, "Though if that's the way you like to play, clearly you are well-versed in the rules from the handbook for rude and obnoxious Americans!"

Alfred's brows lifted, impressed, and he doubled over with hearty laughter.

"Got me there I suppose! But as long as your book doesn't include kicking said rude Americans out now, or worse, throwing them from the moving train, I think I'm alright with it," he joked warmly.

His mirth and irreverence was so infectious, even Arthur forgot his irritation and smirked briefly with a roll of his eyes. He conceded to the idea that perhaps, ever so slightly, he had overreacted. He had just been so shocked to see the American again after he had resolved to not let him disturb his thoughts or his trip, and surprised at his unexpected and unannounced entrance he had lashed out rashly.

"Well, I suppose I can't stop you from continuing to insert yourself into my holiday anymore, can I?" he asked with a teasing air of lofty exasperation.

"Ain't easy to get rid of me, nope," Alfred answered, leaning forward and propping his chin up against his palm, "What the hell kind of a vacation is it if you're alone, anyway?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Like I said on the ferry, it's not so much a holiday as it is a-"

"Research trip, right. For that novel or whatever. Tell you what, it's a few hours from here to Paris, how about we go and research what they got to eat in the dining car?" Alfred cut in suddenly with an inviting grin.

Arthur's cheeks burned hotly and it was several moments before he could form a complete thought to offer the other.

"Oh, isn't it a tad early for dinner? Um, I was just going to get something at my hotel or something when we arrived. It's just that I-"

"The correct response this time is, 'Dinner sounds amazing, Alfred. I'd love to go with you!'" the American finished for him, eyes closed and a finger commandingly in the air.

Arthur sat speechless for a moment in the wake of the same outrageous ploy Alfred had used on the ferry. Emerald eyes shifted shyly upward, met puckish blue and a slow, gentle smile spread over his lips. As much as he wanted to deny him outright, he did have to begrudgingly admit to himself that dinner with company did sound far better than sitting alone in his compartment for several hours. Finally, he tilted his head in acceptance and rose from his bench with his arms stretched casually over his head.

"Alright, you win. Dinner does sound amazing, Alfred. I would love to go with you," he acquiesced.

"Damn right you would!" Alfred cheered as he too leapt to his feet and lunged for the door to push it gallantly open for him, "After you, of course!"

Arthur sauntered out of the door, flashing the other a challenging grin over his shoulder, but turned away to head down the center hall of the car just in time to miss the altogether seductive purr he got in reply.

The duo made their way through the center aisles of the train to the dining car swiftly. Arthur paused but once in one of the junctures between individual cars out in the open to admire the wind whipping around the speeding locomotive and France whipping by in a blur of warm, melted pastels. Alfred bumped into him too soon after he stopped, not minding where he was going, and caused his heart to flutter in his chest and his cheeks to flush madly all over again. They exchanged amused apologies and Arthur hurried on, still feeling the warm, firm beauty of Alfred's body so scantly against his.

The dining car was located near the back of the train and was decorated in all of the finery, velvet, crystal, and silver Arthur would have expected from a five star restaurant. Arthur had never actually been to a five star restaurant, but he imagined it would have been exactly the same as it was walking into the lavish car already beginning to fill up with diners. Tables covered in crisp white linen cloths and each adorned with a tiny crystal bud vase cradling a single red rose blossom. A sensual votive candleholder sat next to each vase as well, illuminating the fine bone china and glittering silver in its flickering caramel glow. The windows were draped in plush red velvet to match the carpet, and as Arthur looked up he could see the ceiling was lushly painted in the style of the old masters themselves with gallant knights, beautiful ladies and cherubs all beneath small golden chandeliers.

"Th-This is phenomenal!" he breathed.

"Pretty swell, I have to admit," Alfred echoed, despite the fact that all he had been looking at was the way Arthur's face had lit up so beautifully upon entering.

The maître d' in all of his tuxedoed, grinning hospitality slathered himself against them and showed them quickly to a table. Alfred made a point of pulling out the chair for Arthur, who tried his hardest not to look embarrassed as he took his menu and opened it as fast as he could to hide his face. The bespectacled American took the seat across from the other blonde and took his own menu to give it only the most cursory of glances before quickly ordering a glass of their finest cognac for each of them. The mere word made Arthur perk up considerably, grinning from ear to ear over the top of his leather bound menu.

"Cognac? Quite presumptive of you to order for me," he teased, "What if I don't happen to drink? Or what if I don't care for brandy?"

Alfred pursed his lips coyly.

"Don't tell me you don't… You'll break my poor little heart," he replied, sensing the jest and peering over the rims of his rectangular glasses.

"Heh, quite the opposite actually. I'll have you know I could drink all my mates back at Oxford under the table," Arthur bragged in return.

Alfred chuckled and fished his pack of Lucky Strikes back out from its home in his jacket.

"Good! Not much of a brandy man myself but I figured they wouldn't have bourbon on a French train. The French are such snobs about their liquor, you know?" he said with a smirk as he lit his cigarette and reached for the crystal ashtray on the table.

Arthur laughed brightly and nodded fervently in agreement.

"Utterly. But I'll never turn down a good brandy, even if it's a French one."

Alfred echoed the cheerful laughter through a light puff of tobacco smoke and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.

"So, an Oxford man huh? Let me guess… Literature. Or maybe Classics? No wait! MODERN literature. No! I know, I've got it. You've got to be a Shakespeare scholar right?" he queried with zeal.

"As much as I love the Bard, no," Arthur replied with amusement, "You were right the first time. Just literature. I wanted to read as much as I could from as many masters as I could. I couldn't bear to focus on just one emphasis, then I would be leaving someone out!"

The duo both chuckled as the waiter arrived promptly with two intricately etched, heavy-bottomed tumblers filled with cognac on the rocks and set one down in front of each. Arthur snatched his up greedily and took a substantial swig, letting the chilled liquid burn down his throat in a satisfyingly smooth rush.

"Mmm, I minored in art, too, believe it or not," he mused, licking his lips, "This is good…"

Alfred took a much more reserved sip of his liquor as he thought and while he gracefully tapped the ash of his cigarette into the tray.

"Oh yeah!" he said suddenly, illumination dawning on him, "Mattie showed me all the illustrations in the books one time while he was visiting. You're good! I mean really good! You could totally kick what's his face's ass! The one with that plain looking broad with that creepy grin or whatever?"

Arthur snorted over the rim of his glass as he polished the brandy off and gestured across the table with it.

"Thank you. Though I think the name you're grappling for is da Vinci. And you are aware we could go see that while we're in Paris," he added.

"No shit? That is in Paris isn't it? Hah! Well then I suppose we'll have to make a date!" Alfred agreed, "You'll have to draw my portrait like that, too. Only better. Get that old dusty relic replaced in that fancy museum. I'd be more than happy to pose for you."

Alfred winked, and Arthur flushed deeply once more as if on cue, much to his delight. He turned away to hide the color and hailed the waiter for a refill on his cognac, clearing his throat as he handed off his glass.

"So um, you said you were in sales? What kind exactly?" he asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

"Auto sales, as a matter of actual fact! American carmakers are finally getting the respect they deserve nowadays and the demand for overseas is huge!" Alfred announced proudly, hooding his eyes, "I have quite a few clients in London. I'm there all the time."

Arthur's heart twittered in his chest. The waiter returned with his second cognac and he swept it into his awaiting fingers before it could even light upon the crisp tablecloth.

"Really? Next time you come across the pond, as we say, I'll have to show you the sights. I'm sure you don't get to any of the good spots being there on business," he invited, taking a sip before he spoke again, "Where in the States do you live, by the way?"

"New York, New York, born and bred," Alfred informed him with robust pleasure.

"Fascinating!" Arthur piped with genuine fervor, "I've always wanted to visit there. And what about your brother? Matthew? You said you grew up together? Is he still nearby?"

"Close enough. Like I said before, he's originally from Canada. He decided he wanted to go back to Montreal once we got outta mom's house, but it's not too terribly far away from where I am. We see each other all the time! Even if Mattie might prefer it if we didn't!" Alfred laughed as he took a long and thoughtful drag on his cigarette.

Arthur's thick brows furrowed sadly.

"Really? That's too bad," he mused, swirling his brandy around the ice cubes.

It took Alfred several moments to realize the other was being sincere in his regret.

"Oh no, it's not really like that! I'm just joshing you! That's what brothers are like! Don't you have any siblings?" he asked with a snort.

"Oh, I see. No, no, I'm an only child. Grew up kind of isolated actually," Arthur admitted with a half smile and a shrug, "One of those picturesque little old houses off in the wilds that has a name instead of a proper post address? Like something out of Jane Austen."

"I have absolutely no idea who that is, but I'll take your word for it!" Alfred asserted, tipping his head to the side with a shrewd grin, "I bet you were a kid with a lot of imaginary friends."

Arthur felt his spine go solidly rigid and his fingers tighten around the glass. It was uncanny, how the seemingly tactless American knew just what to say to get a rise out of him. What was worse was that he seemed to enjoy it far too much.

"W-Well I-!" the author stammered, "Well what child wouldn't have imaginary friends in that situation? It's not as if there's something WRONG with it! It's perfectly ordinary for children to invent playmates! Even when they have regular playmates! I bet you had one too, you just wouldn't dare admit it in polite company!"

Alfred grinned with relish as he watched Arthur flush, snarl, and snap all too easily with one innocent little prod.

"You know you're damn adorable when you get all spitting mad like that," he crooned.

Arthur found himself altogether stymied, all intelligent or witty responses obliterated before they even found life in his mind. All he could do was stare, jaw hanging open and emerald eyes wide, torn between believing what he had just heard and blaming it on his once lush imagination finally coming back to life.

"E-Excuse me?" he managed to rasp at length.

The only answer he got was a cryptically smug grin, as if the American had won some sort of private competition with himself, before the waiter came back to take their dinner orders. Alfred ordered the filet mignon with finesse, rare with extra béarnaise, and handed the menu back over to the smiling attendant, his gaze never leaving his companion. Arthur felt two pairs of eyes on him for several moments before he panicked and hurriedly ordered the first thing he saw on the menu, which happened to be a meat pie of some sort he deducted from the vaguely familiar words. Undoubtedly it had been begrudgingly put down and prepared with pinched noses to appease the English travelers, but Arthur was oddly relieved. He certainly didn't need coping with some sort of ridiculous French dish on top of talking to Alfred and his relentless flirting and teasing.

"Normally I'd rather just have a cheeseburger and fries, but a steak is just as good!" Alfred chirped as soon as the waiter had glided off to fill their orders.

Arthur snapped back to reality with a start and laughed nervously.

"Nothing wrong ordering old favorites. But isn't part of the charm of going to France the food?" he suggested.

"Says the guy who just ordered a meat pie," Alfred teased him in return as he cheerfully stubbed out his cigarette.

Arthur twitched and opened his mouth to give the other the tongue-lashing he so deserved, but he stopped himself with a grin. If Alfred wanted to play that sort of game, he too could play just as well as he could, and he would not give him the satisfaction of getting so adorably spitting mad again.

"I'm British. We've killed our taste buds after centuries of eating nothing but shoe leather and mush. I wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway," he said casually.

A thoroughly shocked Alfred was left speechless for a moment for the first time, but then just as quickly exploded into riotous laughter. He scooped up his glass of brandy and raised it boldly into the air, inviting Arthur to do the same.

"I'll drink to that!" he guffawed playfully.

Arthur picked up his own glass and clinked it cordially against his.

"Cheers," he concurred, and downed the rest of his second cognac while Alfred polished off his first.

After Alfred's challenges had been so successfully met, conversation flourished for the rest of the meal. Both men engrossed themselves fully in their flirtatiously combative banter, which proved to be a more effective vehicle for getting to know one another than they ever could have imagined. They discovered each of them had grown up hearing about the second world war, but neither of them had ever had the misfortune of being drafted or dispatched. Both readily enjoyed sports, but they had to come to the conclusion to agree to disagree on that particular subject. Alfred had never even heard of rugby, and Arthur just didn't quite understand baseball. As far as he was concerned, Alfred himself was a Yankee, and why they would name their much beloved team after their word for Americans was beyond him. Alfred confessed he had never been much of a reader, but listened with genuine interest as Arthur so kindly educated him on all of his favorite authors and works. A passion for alcohol brought them no end of spirited discussion, which moved on to types of music, motion pictures, food, and hobbies. They shared much of them in common, and even happened to discover by some stroke of fate that they were booked into the very same hotel in Paris.

Dinner arrived promptly, and even as they hungrily devoured their meals they continued to talk and laugh without so much as a single lull in the dialogue. The brandy kept coming, and eventually the bottle simply stayed on the table and drained lower and lower as the ashtray filled with Lucky Strike butts and the train chugged closer to Paris in the coming dusk. Spirits loosened tongues, and once they had exhausted the usual small talk and platitudes neither hesitated to delve into more intimate subjects. Alfred told his new English confidant the short version of his relationship with Matthew, and Arthur listened enraptured as he heard how his mother had fallen in love with a Canadian man and left his father for Matthew's father. Matthew had been born shortly afterward in Montreal, and Alfred had stayed in New York with his other parent for several years until the second marriage crumbled and she had finally come back for him. After that, he had grown up with his half brother in upstate New York and had lived dangerously every moment.

Arthur heard tale after tale of Alfred's wild youth; everything from fixing up an old car to race with through a field just out of town, pulling pranks at school, various broken bones and injuries, smoking behind the school after hours, sneaking alcohol and shoplifting to less horrifying adventures such as hunting and camping trips to Canada with Matthew and his father, Coney Island, and sailing in Lake Ontario. Alfred produced grand stories with the littlest inspiration or invocation, and as Arthur listened he found himself sinking into a strange, jealous despair. He had not one singular anecdote that could even hold a flame to any belonging to the sandy-haired American. Alfred had been so many places and seen so many things he felt even more like he had lived his life in a prison. Luckily the much more readily verbose man was perfectly content to chatter on about his own life for most of the evening, until they were thoroughly flush with drink and polishing off the last of the crème brûlée they had ordered to share and he had finally asked about tight-lipped new friend's life.

Arthur sputtered and gestured with his spoon and stalled as long as he could, but under the coaxing sly blue gaze and the warm smile on Alfred's face he had finally confessed his entire drab, uneventful life. With a subtle note of regret in his voice, he recounted his perfectly ordinary childhood with both parents in the tiny town in the countryside of imagination and fairies and never going on holiday once, his school years of being a teacher's pet, earning perfect marks, playing rugby, and his college years of confining himself to the library, only emerging for a night of drinking with his friends or perhaps a dinner out. He spoke of listening to the reports on the wireless and of his inspiration for his novels, which lead to the story of actually writing them. Only then did his voice finally come alive, did pride fill his tale and his words, and a smile wash over his lips. Though as he came to the end of his one story of pride and victory, sadness replaced the glow of joy as he finally told his companion just how empty finishing his saga had made him, and why he had so suddenly up and decided to leave.

"I'm barking mad for taking this trip," he moaned drunkenly, rubbing his face, "But there's nothing left. I'm bored to death."

"But I thought you had an idea for a novel or something. Didn't you say?" Alfred mused, squinting his eyes as he thought back.

"There is no novel," Arthur bitterly confessed, shaking his head, "I'm dried up, washed up, completely blank. My muses have flown back to Olympus! There's nary a single creative thought left in my head. I haven't done a single sodding thing in my entire life and I'm twenty five years old!"

"Well, you wrote your other books, and they make a lot of people really happy, including my little brother, that's worth something isn't it?" Alfred posed softly.

Arthur flushed and bobbed his hanging head in agreement, brushing the spoon thoughtfully over his lips.

"Of course it is, I'm not questioning that it's just… Writing them made me really happy too, and now that it's over I don't know what to do. I WANT to write again, there's just… Nothing inside me. I'm just empty."

Alfred watched him for a moment in silent contemplation, seeing the pain and the yearning so clearly etched on his beautiful face. He sat up slowly in his chair and reached a broad hand over the table to cup his chin tenderly and lift his head, catching his emerald eyes once more with a smile.

"I don't think so," he whispered, caressing his cheek with his thumb, "I think you're doing exactly what it is you need to do. Writing is about life, you can't write if you don't LIVE. And someone who was truly empty wouldn't feel that irresistible pull of adventure. You're just a little lost right now. That's all."

Alfred smiled handsomely and Arthur's heart raced once again in his chest as he stayed transfixed in his powerful spell.

"A-Alfred…" was all he could manage to breath.

Alfred opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could get a word out the train gave a dull shudder, the whistle blew, and the voice of the conductor rang through the car announcing their imminent arrival into Paris. Arthur gasped and sat bolt upright in his chair, clapping a hand over his mouth.

"We're here already? How long were we at dinner? I've got to fetch my things! Come on!" he barked, and darted out of the dining car.

Alfred watched him go amusedly and rose from his perch with far less urgency. He fished a few more bills out of his wallet to toss on the table as a tip before he too strode out of the dining car after him. Arthur tore like a flash through the center aisle and to his abandoned compartment where his coat, jacket, hat, and suitcase were all still exactly where he had left them. He donned them all again as quickly as he could and stepped back into the hall where the other passengers were beginning to emerge to disembark, including a very familiar figure in a camel suede coat, goggles, and bogged down on every limb with luggage.

"Matthew!" he cried in surprise.

Guilt seized his chest as he realized he had altogether forgotten about the younger of the two brothers and had whittled away the hours monopolizing the only company he had.

"I'm so sorry! I should have come and invited you to dinner too!" he spluttered.

Matthew smiled cheerfully, shook his head, and held up his copy of the final book of the Sabrehaven Chronicles.

"It's really no trouble at all. Honestly, I was a bit relieved Alfred wanted to go to dinner with you. It gave me some nice, quiet time alone to read without him bothering me," he replied sweetly.

Unable to argue with that logic, Arthur freed himself from any more guilt, laughed, and promptly insisted on shouldering some of the burden of the luggage since he only had his one suitcase. Alfred joined them a few minutes later and together, the trio exited the train and onto the platform in Paris.

Dusk cloaked the city of lights in a scandalously rich stole of sensual reds, flaming oranges and blushing pinks. Beneath it, Paris lay like rich dark velvet studded with diamonds flashing in the brazen smoldering sunset and above it all, the proud, yet elegantly intricate silhouette of the Eiffel Tower rose and caressed the clouds. To Arthur, he might as well have stepped off the train and into another world.

The Seine rippled and flashed brightly through the teeming, crowded streets where the wrought iron lamps flickered to life and lit the paths of lovers and vagabonds alike as night gave the city over to her people. Thousands of years of civilization, culture, and history rose proudly, scarred and beautiful, into the darkening sky and beckoned Arthur into their dew-studded web of intrigue and promise. He knew nothing of what awaited him in the labyrinth of Paris with her alleys and sewers of legend, but Alfred was right about him. He yearned for the adventure.

Arthur led the charge away from the train station, insisting on traveling on foot to the Hotel Ècarlate where they were all staying in order to fully enjoy their first night in Paris as much as they could. Exhausted, and still reeling from the brandy at dinner, as they all were, not one protested the fairly substantial walk through the busiest streets of France's capital and most cherished city. Arthur took the time to chat with Matthew, since he had been denied the pleasure of much of his company, and found him to be quite the opposite of his brother. Sweet, shy, and utterly soft-spoken, conversation did not come quite so readily with him as it did with his older sibling, but it was much kinder and distinctly lacking in twitching eyelids and bouts of temper. They got along fabulously and talked as Alfred took up the lead of the group and smoked another cigarette, grinning as he eavesdropped.

Hotel Ècarlate was a few miles through the main thoroughfares of Paris, past several fragrant patisseries, cafes, and a long rue of nothing but fine boutiques with mannequins donning all of their satin, feathered luxury and posing for each passerby enticingly. It stood at the helm of a long block of shops and apartments, the neon sign emblazoned with its name glowing bright red against a vivid painting of a phoenix beneath it. Arthur grinned privately, and looked the rest of the building over, wondering just which balcony and window would be his to gaze out of and survey all there was to see.

They entered through the rotating door of the main entrance and while Arthur and Matthew paused to admire the interior with its crystal chandeliers and oil paintings, Alfred took the liberty of checking them in. Arthur greeted the concierge kindly in French, checked in, received his own key, and the trio of foreigners trudged wearily onto the elevator to retire at last for the night. Matthew and Alfred were to be staying in a room on the fifth floor, where Arthur had been awarded one almost on the top level on the ninth. He could only hope it was high enough to see over the entire cityscape.

Too soon, the elevator jostled to a halt on the fifth floor, and Alfred turned to bid his new friends good night, but Alfred made no move to leave. Instead, he urged Matthew to go and take the bags to his room while he escorted Arthur to his. His chivalry incited a few bristly remarks about not being a damsel in distress, which he laughed all the way through, but Matthew finally obeyed and left the two of them together in the elevator all the way to the ninth floor. They rode in silence, Arthur blushing and fuming and Alfred grinning like the cat that just caught the mouse, until the car came to another jarring halt and the doors slid open with a pleasant hiss.

Alfred gestured for Arthur to exit ahead of him, and Arthur stalked out quickly, making a sharp right down the hall. Alfred followed close at his heels and once Arthur stopped in front of the door matching the number on his key, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned roguishly against the wall.

"Well, this is it. Nice riding with you, and I'll see you around, I suppose?" Arthur said jocularly, sticking his key into the lock and turning it.

"I can do better than that," Alfred chortled, "Tell you what! Mattie and I have a date or something with some cousins of his tomorrow afternoon and night, but! It just so happens I'm free all morning. What do you say I come up and sweep you off your feet and take you to your first real Parisian breakfast? I know a great place nearby, all the locals go!"

Arthur nearly dropped his key as he jerked it free of the door, whirling around to face the American.

"Sweep me off my- For the last time I am NOT a damsel in distress and I don't NEED-" he started to protest, only to find Alfred's finger pressed tenderly against his lips, quieting him.

"Yes or no, Arthur," he instructed with a smirk.

Arthur stayed silent for a moment, weighing his options, before he even remembered to swat Alfred's hand away and bristle, the warmth of those strong, commanding digits lingering on his lips.

"Fine, I guess that would be alright," he grumbled, wiping at his mouth.

"Finally getting the right answers eh? Great! I'll be up around eight, how's that?" Alfred asked in an excited tone that was much more informative than it was a true question.

Arthur nodded tersely in response and opened his door.

"Good. I'll… See you then, then," he said with an uneasy smirk.

"See you then," Alfred echoed, a much softer smile on his face, "Goodnight, Unicorn guy."

The Brit scowled and flushed one last time for him, but could not help the smile that erased it.

"Goodnight."

Alfred gave him a crooked salute, turned over his shoulder and strolled down the hallway with his hands in his pockets and a loudly whistled tune on his lips. Arthur lingered in the doorway of his hotel room until he heard the elevator doors shut and the cheerful melody fade away into nothingness. Only then did he remember to breathe. With Alfred finally gone and the fog lifted from his mind, he could finally remember that he was alone, and his sanctuary was awaiting him. He picked up his suitcase clumsily and retreated into the simple room painted a calming cream color with red and gold accents, and set his suitcase down at the foot of the four poster bed pushed up against the wall beneath a pastoral painting. Immediately, he went to window and threw open the curtains, gazing out into the brilliant sight that greeted him.

From his window, he did indeed feel as if he could see all of Paris. The road lead straight away from beneath it, paving its way into the city in bright golden light like a pathway opening only for him. He could see the grand, lighted shape of the Eiffel Tower perched on the horizon as well the sinuous flash of the Seine nearby, and distantly, he could hear the faint, jubilant sounds of a musette played by deft hands somewhere on the street. He had finally made it. He was there at last, in the center of it all, watching a brand new country with brand new people on the first night of his new adventure. Everything was perfect. He had been concerned about what exactly he was going to do or where he was going to go upon arriving in Paris, but so unexpectedly the grinning, bespectacled American had breezed in and solved that for him.

In the morning, he would be striking out into a new city, eating foods he had never tried before with someone who made him feel like no one had ever made him feel. He had expected to be inspired by Paris, by a change of scenery and a new way of life, someplace new and something new, what he never counted on was finding someone new who would turn everything he expected upside down. Though as much as he wanted to be angry that his plans had been thus far nothing like he had carefully outlined and angry at Alfred for being so able to get a rise out of him, as he sat there on his windowsill, watching the night sky and the glitter of Paris, his heart raced and he silently begged the dawn to come as soon as it could.

Perhaps there was just a tiny bit that was charming about Alfred Jones.

And the end of chapter 2! That Alfred Jones, such a slick little charmer he is, isn't he? But now that Arthur is in Paris, he's probably not the only slick little charmer in town, ohohohoh! Stay tuned for chapter 3 and please do review if you enjoyed! X3


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Ah well! I said I was gonna try and have a chapter out a week! So much for that :T! But hey, here we have another much anticipated addition! Because Francis finally shows up just like I promised heheh :T I had an absolute blast finally getting to write him, he's my favorite character of the series and I just adore him to death! Now also seems a good time to remind everyone that this is definitely one of those US/UK/FR fics, yep one of THOSE. I really wish would let you set three main characters dangit! What are we supposed to do for all these torrid love triangle fics of deliciousness? Anyhoo! Enjoy the next chapter! :3

**Chapter Three**

_In which Arthur ventures at last into Paris and gets more of Paris than he bargained for._

Arthur was so exhausted by the time he dragged his sorry carcass to bed, he was nearly instantly asleep despite the strange room, the unfamiliar bed, and the thoughts of Alfred plaguing his mind. He did remember in the fog of it all to set the alarm clock on the nightstand for precisely seven o'clock, however, as he did not want to risk sleeping in and missing his appointment, or meeting, or outing, or date. Arthur frankly had no idea. He would find out in the morning, he was certain, and barred it from even invading his dreams that night as he slept under the Parisian sky.

Arthur slept peacefully, but the city did not. It continued to pulse with life and vigor long into the night, pausing only briefly when dawn touched the horizon with rosy fingers and gently urged the creatures of the night back home. Replacing the sultry lights, the seductive aroma of perfume, and the swish of satin dresses, store awnings blossomed in the pale golden light, the smell of fresh pastries and the finest coffee and tea filled the air, and the sky washed to a radiant cornflower blue, all before the impatient jangle of the alarm even went off. Accustomed to waking up to the sound of frantic bells every morning, Arthur rolled over with a grunt and batted blindly at the source of the noise until his hand made violent contact with metal. The ringing ceased and he spent one blissful moment between sleeping and waking remembering his adventure so far with a sleepy smile on his face.

The sound of birds chirping and heralding the morning drifted into his room echoed, and Arthur finally opened his emerald green eyes. He rose slowly, stretched and yawned, and then made his way groggily in his dressing gown to the window where he pushed the curtains aside to let in the triumphant light of morning. It blinded him for a brief moment, but when his eyes focused he was greeted with the gilded beauty of Paris in the daylight. The city became an entirely different creature when touched and brought to life by the warm rays of the sun and beneath the wispy veil of clouds. People on bicycles whizzed through the streets on their way to wherever they spent their days, the trees shone and glinted warm yellow and green in the balmy breeze, and the Eiffel tower became an elegant and lacy guardian of all its beauty and splendor.

The sight was so beautiful and captivating, Arthur nearly lost track of time and himself in the rich canvas of colors, life, and decadence, but he remembered his appointed outing and drew himself away from his perch to the bathroom. There was, in fact, a shower, he noted with amusement, completely and totally shattering all the foul-smelling Frenchman jokes he had told and laughed at over the years. He undressed and got in, cleaning himself thoroughly and shaving, refreshing the slight lingering effects of the brandy, and still wondering all the while if there were only showers in French hotels purely for foreign tourists with a smirk on his face.

After he was finished, the author finally got around to unpacking his suitcase and selected a simple white shirt, forest green argyle sweater vest and a bright red tie to match for the day. Arthur donned them quickly, and was ready to leave with his wallet and keys stashed in his pockets a full five minutes before Alfred's appointed hour. He sat on his bed, heart racing, and watched the clock as he waited for the arrival of his American friend. Eight o'clock flew in on the rapid wings of time, but then just as quickly vanished into five minutes past the hour. Arthur watched with increasing irritation as the small hand of the clock slid past the one, caressed the two, and was just flirting with three, when then loud, jarring knock finally sounded at his door.

"Finally…" he grumbled to himself as he got up, and stalked over to the door.

He threw it open angrily and revealed the perpetually cheery, grinning face of Alfred once again. He was dressed in a pair of crisp brown slacks with a pressed cream-colored shirt and suspenders, rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and bright blue eyes glinting behind them as he raised a hand in greeting.

"Morning, Arthur!" he chirped loudly, "Ready to have the best damn breakfast you ever ate?"

"I was ready over fifteen minutes ago! I thought you said eight!" Arthur snapped.

"I said _around_ eight, there's a difference," Alfred chuckled in reply.

He offered out his arm, continuing to grin even despite the rankled glare he endured.

"Shall we?"

Arthur took one look at the arm held out in only the most gentlemanly of manners, flushed angrily, and slammed the door to his room shut behind him as he brushed past without even considering taking it.

"Don't be an idiot," he huffed.

Alfred pursed his lips, drew his hand back, and settled for watching Arthur's rear end gleefully as he marched to the elevator and nearly crushed the button to call it. The American followed close behind, and together they rode down to the lobby where they exited out onto the street.

The sun shone bright and warm down over the already bustling and busy city sparkling with life, and the duo was immediately swept into the robust heartbeat of it. Men and women alike walked the streets in bright bold colors, smoking pungent cigarettes and speaking in rapid, melodic French. All around him he could smell pastries, fresh coffee and tea all mixed with the bright, clear air and the distinct odor of petrol and exhaust from the pristinely polished cars that sped noisily past on the wrong side of the street. It was all so fascinating and new and poignantly different, Arthur completely forgot his irritation at Alfred for delaying him from seeing it.

"This is just extraordinary!" he gasped as they wended their way through the sprawling rues and streets, "Look at it! Look at the artistry on every building! The landscaping! The people! I never could have imagined from the pictures in the travel brochure!"

Alfred smiled, watching the look of sheer joy and wonder replace the scowl on Arthur's face.

"You're pretty easily impressed aren't you?" he chuckled amusedly.

"I am not! I just appreciate the simple beauty of this place! It's the whole reason I came after all!" Arthur quipped back, "Experiencing a new place isn't just all about big monuments or fancy food or even the famous sites! It's about just seeing something different for once!"

The sandy-haired, younger man held his hands up defensively, and replied with his usual carefree laugh.

"Hey hey now, did I say it was a bad thing?" he defended himself merrily, "I mean, if you couldn't find something amazing in something little or whatever, you'd be pretty damn bored all the time wouldn't you?"

Arthur flinched, suddenly feeling just the slightest bit guilty for snapping, and flushed all over again.

"I suppose you're right…" he grumbled.

"Plus, isn't it all these little details that make your books so amazing? I sure as hell could never think up anything like all those places and people and magic and stuff!" Alfred laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"How would you know that? You didn't even READ my novels!" Arthur hissed cantankerously, almost to himself.

The part of him that considered Alfred a complete ignorant lout won out over the part of him that liked to color his face and make his heart flutter in his chest, and he paused a moment to let the American get one pace ahead of him as he fumed. Sensing the sudden change in the mood, Alfred cast a glance over his shoulder with an obliviously cheery grin.

"Then why don't you tell me all about them?" he suggested genuinely.

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, emerald eyes wide.

"Y-You want to hear about them?" he asked, flabbergasted.

Alfred paused in his stroll to wait for the older blonde he had stunned, smirking.

"Of course I do! Mattie loves them, and the author is a pretty damn interesting guy, I have to say. It's about time I was schooled, don't you think?" he replied invitingly.

Arthur could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and seeing the shock on his face Alfred interjected again.

"I want to know all about you… And those books are a big part of who you are. I know how you creative types get about your works," he said with a flirtatious wink, "So come on. Show the big American idiot what the big deal is all about!"

Arthur stood on the tree-lined Paris sidewalk for several more moments, response after response whizzing through his head, but none making it past his lips.

"I-I well…" he finally managed to stammer, thick brows furrowing and finally snapping, "You have to promise you'll actually pay attention then! Or else I swear I'm giving you a pop bloody quiz when we get to the café!"

Alfred reached out and gently put a hand on Arthur's back to urge him forward, laughing brightly as they began their journey again.

"Trust me, I'm all yours."

The indignant flush lingered stubbornly on Arthur's cheeks as they walked and he shyly began relating the story of his novels, the condensed version. He told him of how the idea first came to him, of how he had sketched Keiran, his unicorn hero, in the midst of battle triumphant beside his loyal phoenix companion ablaze with virtuous flame, and how thrilling it had felt to be transported to the fantasy realm of Sabrehaven in his head and in his heart. The famed author told Alfred the entire process, from beginning to end, gave him a brief biography of each of the heroes and each of the villains, a run down on all the intricate relationships between the players and the lands they roamed, and then finally moved on to the story that had spanned several heavy tomes, sparing no detail he deemed vital. Arthur did talk the entire time, as he had expected, but the thought of letting his mind wander elsewhere never even whispered into Alfred's ear. Talking about his writing and his art made Arthur glow with an enthusiasm, a joy, and a deep pride that was obvious and strikingly beautiful, and he found himself transfixed. The entire few blocks they walked to get to the café he chose for them he listened intently to his every word, just as he had promised.

The duo walked close together through the shady streets, the crisp breeze refreshing under the gentle warmth of the steadily rising sun, and chatted as easily as they had the night before, as if they were old friends. It seemed no time at all before they rounded the final block, and finally came up the street to the corner café on the bustling corner of a crowded intersection. Patrons drifted casually in and out of the tall, inviting building in a steady stream, its tall glass windows covered lovingly in lacy, apple-patterned curtains on the inside. Creeping ivy climbed around the glass entrance doors, which bore the gilded insignia of, '_Café Pomme'_ in intricate golden cursive over the logo of a lushly painted red apple. A white, potted fence filled with immaculately trimmed hedges, marigolds, tulips, pansies, and all manner of delicate and beautiful flowers lovingly encircled its sprawling patio peppered in pink and white umbrella-covered tables and the smell of freshly baked goods and exotic coffee filled the very air, titillating Arthur's every sense as they walked up the pathway to the entrance.

"Café Apple, is it?" he remarked in amusement, "It's cute, and it certainly smells delicious."

"It is delicious!" Alfred confirmed happily, looking around the crowded patio area, "Busy as hell apparently, but delicious. Hey, how about you hunt us down a table out here and guard it with your life, and I'll go get us a little sampler of pastries and fruit and such and two coffees?"

Arthur wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

"Tea for me, thanks. Earl grey. But otherwise, great idea. You don't mind sitting outside do you? It's lovely out."

"Not at all!" Alfred announced loudly as he turned toward the door, "I'll be RIGHT back!"

With that, the American dashed inside the café and forcibly inserted himself into the ponderous line ahead of a man tragically not paying attention and taking too much time perusing the pastry case. Arthur smirked fondly at him and watched him through the glass doors for only a few moments, marveling at his uniquely carefree way of existing in the world. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, but the smile never left it as he turned to go on a hunt for a place to sit at the very popular café.

Most of the tables near the door and near the street had been taken already and were occupied by grinning men in suits, beautiful women smoking thin cigarettes in long black lacquer holders, and gaggles of school children chattering excitedly and stuffing croissants into their mouths as they scurried quickly on their way. Near the back corners of the patio a few lonely tables remained unoccupied, however, and Arthur confidently forded his way through the sea of people and quaint white tablecloths to the one furthest away from any other diners where he and Alfred could have the area, small as it was, to themselves. The idea made his cheeks burn and the smile on his lips a little brighter, and so enthralled was he with the vision of sitting with his handsome companion on a glorious morning in absolutely breathtaking Paris watching the world go by together, he failed to notice every single chair had vanished from the near vicinity of his chosen perch save for only one.

Utterly dismayed with his fantasy in jeopardy thanks to one lousy chair, Arthur looked around frantically for any that might have been abandoned by a careless extra patron at a table where it did not belong. Luckily, he happened to spot just exactly what he was looking for pushed up against the hedge growing along the café wall and forgotten. A single, solitary unoccupied chair sat alone, its pink cushion clean and inviting, white painted back coiling intricately and shining in the sun. Hope and his fantasy immediately stoked back to life, Arthur dashed back across the patio and zeroed in on his target to claim it before anyone else could steal it from him. His hand darted out, he took one final quick stride and finally landed it on the cool metal of the chair's back victoriously, but the moment his fingers closed around the delicate iron another broad, warm palm and elegant fingers closed around his own.

Surprised, Arthur jerked his head up and looked straight into a pair of equally shocked, startling sky blue eyes. The chair thief stared back at him, his handsome, ruggedly unshaven face framed in a loose fall of long, wavy golden hair tied at the nape of his neck with a bright blue satin ribbon and wearing a similar expression of astonishment. For one silent, long moment their eyes stayed locked, a disarmingly charming grin crossed the lips of the other man, and Arthur held his breath in momentary bedazzlement of the beautiful stranger and the altogether awkward situation. Once he realized the strong, tender hand was still on his, they both retracted them hastily and laughed.

"Pardon," Arthur said politely, and reached for the chair again.

The tall, golden-haired stranger did the same, and each tugged on the opposite of the chair at the exact same moment, leaving it unmoved in any way and still sitting daintily in the exact same spot. Green eyes leveled with a twitch of irritation at the then perturbed blue irises, and crooked, annoyed smiles graced the lips of both men still gripping the chair just a little tighter.

"If you don't mind," Arthur continued, his voice thinly veiled in feigned courtesy, "I believe I had it first."

His adversary made no move to allow him to leave with his prize, and both remained stubbornly in their standoff with their hands still clenching the chair.

"I think not, _mon ami_," the other retorted testily in a lilting French accent, "Clearly, it was I who saw this chair first. I merely got distracted for a moment on the way over, and my table is further away, I had longer to go!"

Arthur felt him give another tug on the contested chair, but he dug in his heels and yanked right back with a growl.

"What kind of a bollocks excuse is that? My hand was on it first! It's mine!"

"There is a perfectly good chair over there in the corner for your sad lonely breakfast by yourself!" the Frenchman countered mockingly.

Arthur was so appalled by the sheer nerve of that statement he nearly forgot to keep his hold.

"Excuse me! My friend is merely waiting in line for the both of us inside and he asked me to secure us both a table! I'm not eating alone! And even if I were, who gives a damn?" he sibilated.

The golden blonde laughed derisively again and shrugged.

"Not I, certainly, but you will find that my entire party is already here and at a table and we just need one more chair. Why don't you go and find a place to sit inside for your silly little breakfast date?" he sneered with a snide grin.

Arthur felt his cheeks burn with humiliated hellfire as he nearly lost his grip on the coveted piece of furniture.

"I-It's not a DATE. How dare you insinuate that!" he spluttered before he could stop himself.

Clearly sensing a weak spot, the taller man grinned wolfishly and hooded his crystalline eyes.

"Ohhh? But clearly you want it to be, _non_?" he crooned.

"NO!" Arthur gasped too quickly, "I mean! It's nothing! We're both on holiday! We met on the train! He knows this place and merely wanted to treat me to it my first day in Paris!"

The melodic laugh that rang in reply from the throat of the other made a shiver run up and down Arthur's spine.

"If you are to be wooed over breakfast, I hope for your sake he is French," he chuckled.

The author scowled again and drew himself up importantly.

"No, actually, he just so happens to be American."

The expression that flashed across the chair burglar's face looked something akin to a combination of surprise, disgust and hilarity all at once.

"Then I feel even more sorry for you! Dining alone would be far more pleasant than dining with an American! I shall do you a favor and take the chair so you can make your escape while you still can," he laughed harshly with another firm tug at the hapless piece of furniture.

"Not if I have anything to do with it!" Arthur countered furiously with a hard pull of his own, "I came here to experience Paris damn it, and I'm not going to let this bloody chair ruin it!"

"Experience Paris? Heh, well if you want to live like we do here, then all you have to do is follow _Monsieur_ charming American to his room tonight."

Arthur's eyes went wide, his face went white, and his grip loosened on the chair just enough to allow the Frenchman to finally wrest it from his grasp.

"_Merci_," he purred with a smug grin.

Arthur's brain quickly regained vital function as he saw the other turn away with the chair. Not to be undone by a simple tease, he darted forward and snatched a leg boldly in both hands, nearly tripping the retreating Frenchman who had only managed to escape a few feet. He whirled around indignantly, shocked that the Brit continued to dog him even still.

"_Mon dieu_! It's a CHAIR!" he snarled exasperatedly.

"Now it's the principle of the thing! You can stand and eat breakfast for all I care, but I will be sitting on a damned beautiful Paris street with my new friend who invited me, drinking my sodding tea and eating the best damn breakfast I ever ate while I watch the world go by, whether you like it or not!" Arthur raved, jabbing a finger toward the other.

Impressed by the irate Brit's stubbornness and passion, the temporarily triumphant blue-eyed young man softened and managed a gentle smirk.

"You are truly hell bent on having this breakfast _romantique_," he mused, "There is something to be admired about that I suppose."

"It's not bloody romantic!" Arthur seethed.

The momentary tenderness that had graced the handsome face of the stranger instantly melted away back to tetchy distaste.

"Then you don't need the chair that badly!" he huffed haughtily.

Arthur's rage grew hotter and more volatile by the moment. The utterly smug, infuriatingly gorgeous man dressed in nothing but wine red shirt unbuttoned lewdly halfway down his chest and a green striped scarf and yet treating him like he was some sort of aged prude made him almost want to release his hold on the chair, just so he could slug him properly in the face.

"Oh, so if I'd told you I needed it to get into someone's pants you'd be more inclined to give it up!" the enraged Brit bristled.

He should have known even obliquely mentioning sex would make his adversary grin, but when he did it only riled and disgusted him exponentially more so despite being prepared for it.

"_Peut-être_. It would be at least a much more interesting excuse than some boring breakfast with someone you just met on a train!" the Frenchman said silkily with a suggestive grin.

"That tears it. Unhand it before this gets really ugly!" Arthur finally bellowed.

"I am more than prepared for ugly! I was handling ugly the moment I laid eyes on your face and those ghastly caterpillars you pass off for eyebrows!" challenged the thief, leaning in closer.

Arthur met his challenge and leaned in as well, glaring straight into his eyes and baring his teeth in a twitching, furious grin.

"Oh yeah? And here I was thinking you'd just lay down and give up like you people always do!" he quipped back smugly.

"Arrogant, bullheaded _rosbif_!"

"Perverse, foppish frog!"

The thought that he should finally raise his fist to pummel the impertinent stranger was just beginning to percolate through the haze of anger in Arthur's mind when suddenly, the door to the café swung open a few feet away and the bell attached to it tinkled sweetly. Alfred Jones' head poked out, searched around, and his hand followed suit with a cheerful wave once he spotted his breakfast partner at last.

"Hey Arthur! What are you still doing out here? Patio's way too crowded, so I found us a great spot inside! It's by the window and everything! Come on I got all the best stuff! These croissants are fresh out of the oven!" he called gallantly.

Arthur's bushy brows twitched in defeat, and the Frenchman took the opportunity to finally snatch his coveted chair away from him at last.

"A-Alright! Coming!" he piped shakily back at the American.

Alfred grinned and disappeared back into the café while Arthur glowered one last time at the infuriating Frenchman still lingering and grinning despite having won.

"Arthur, is it?" he chimed sweetly, "Well, _félicitations_, it appears a happy medium has been reached!"

"Bugger off! You won, now we can both go enjoy our breakfasts where we don't have to look at each other!" Arthur spat.

The Frenchman laughed as he reached a hand into his pocket, dug around for a moment, and then finally procured a small pink card.

"Here," he said, holding the card out between two long, elegant fingers, "In case you ever want to experience the REAL _Paris_. Take this."

Part of him told himself to swat the scrap of whatever it was out of his hand, curse him out, and stomp off, but curiosity got the better of Arthur and he reached out to take it. A delicate illustration of a beautifully intricate birdcage with a tiny yellow bird perched on the swing inside decorated the business card along with the words, '_Le Petit Oiseau Chanteur_' in bold print across the top. Beneath it, in smaller letters, read '_Francis Bonnefoy – Amuseur Extraordinaire_' in coiling, sensual script. The bottom of the card consisted of a rather large blank space, and other than that there seemed to be nothing special or even remotely intriguing about it at all. Arthur frowned and looked up, but before he could even inquire, Francis, as the card had kindly informed him, answered his question.

"Hold it gently to a candle later," he said with a wink, "It will show you the way. We open around eight, and the show starts at nine."

Arthur colored ever so slightly as he scowled, and promptly crammed the card carelessly into his pocket.

"Like I'd come to some seedy, sleazy, run down bar or nightclub or whatever it is!" he snapped, "Especially if YOU go there."

Francis grinned and shrugged, then picked up his chair to go to finally go to breakfast.

"That, _mon rosbif mignon_… Is entirely up to you," he crooned, kissing the tips of his fingers and blowing the kiss toward the horrified Brit, "_Au revoir_."

Arthur quivered in sheer revulsion as Francis turned over his shoulder, lush waves of golden hair and silk blue ribbon glinting in the sun, hips swaying as he walked to the other end of the patio and joined a table filled with people who all greeted him warmly as he sat down. It took Arthur several moments to even realize that he had watched Francis go and that he was no longer required to even look at him, and once he did he swore under his breath and stalked angrily back inside the café.

Alfred was inside waiting for him at a table beside a sunny window, just as he had promise, lavishly piled with pastries, croissants, spreads, the pot of tea he had requested, and fresh fruits, sipping his coffee as he smoked lazily. He smiled when he saw him, and Arthur smiled in return, and forced himself to forget the random fight with the obnoxious blonde as he rejoined his friend for a pleasant meal.

"This looks smashing!" he exclaimed eagerly as he slid into the seat.

"It is trust me! So lets quit dawdling and dig in!" Alfred cheered and vigorously stubbed out his cigarette before picking up a fork to jab at a fruit crepe.

Arthur took the time to put a napkin in his lap neatly before he surveyed the mountain of food Alfred had purchased. Though even as he perused and eventually settled on a croissant, as he dipped a knife into the strawberry preserves seeing French food only made Francis' mocking words resurface in his mind. He twitched angrily, and made a point of puncturing the pastry violently.

"Can I… Ask you something, Alfred?" he began, lips twisting to the side.

The American crammed another bite of crepe into his mouth and nodded cheerily.

"Sure! Shoot!" he mumbled, mouth filled with cream and strawberries.

Arthur hesitated a moment, twisting the knife through the flaky layers and watching the bright red sugary spread drip morbidly through it.

"Do you… Think my eyebrows… Look like… Caterpillars…?" he asked slowly and timidly.

A moment of silence followed the question.

"Well yeah! But you can't help that now can you?" Alfred answered with an obliviously delighted grin.

A choked sound of shock, insult, and rage wrenched its way out of Arthur's throat, and Alfred kept on shoveling food into his mouth. His answer, coupled with the still pent up rage from his argument before, finally boiled over and before he could even stop himself he was flinging his croissant right into that obnoxious smile. The baked treat bounced off the bridge of Alfred's nose and left a bright streak of sticky red across his stunned face and his spectacles.

"Git," Arthur grumbled moodily.

Alfred stared at him for a few moments, blinking, before a wry grin graced his dirtied face. Without a word in retaliation or defense, he swiped a finger through the whipped cream on his crepe, reached across the table and smeared it playfully across Arthur's cheek, brushing his thumb over his lips. The Brit sat straight up in his chair, cheeks flushing scarlet, feeling the warmth of the fingers and the smooth sweetness of the cream lingering on his quivering lips. His tongue ventured out to taste it, and the rich flavor coupled with Alfred's playful grin soothed his frayed nerves and replaced them with the exhilarated racing of his heart.

"It is good…" Arthur murmured, snickering and wiping the rest from his cheek.

Alfred laughed as well as he cleaned his glasses with his napkin.

"Told you so."

Both of them erupted into raucous laughter at once as they cleaned their faces and finally settled in to enjoy the meal they had set out to enjoy. Conversation flourished and they once again returned to the easy, pleasant repartee they had enjoyed since their first meeting. Arthur forgot all about Francis and their annoying altercation and spent his morning gazing both at Alfred's handsome, smiling face and out the window to the Paris street, sipping his perfectly brewed Earl Grey, eating the most amazing croissants he had ever tasted, and conveniently forgetting all about the mysterious pink card still stuffed deep inside his pocket.

* * *

Ohoho! The plot thickens! Will Arthur actually accept the invitation of the bloody frog? And more importantly, what will happen if he does? Stay tuned!


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Hahah! Bet you thought this one got away on me huh? Nope! At last a brand new chapter! I apologize for the hideous lateness, October turned out to be an extremely busy and stressful month of IRL bullshit and writing was the least that was on my mind :/ But everything is good now, not to worry and I can get back to Hetalia happy fun times!

Also I'd just like to take a sec and thank everyone who's commented so far on this fic. The comments have just blown my mind and have made me so unbelievably happy you guys don't even know! This has received a level of attention and praise I never expected and I thank you guys SO much for that! ; w ; It has really inspired me to want to work on a few more of my Hetalia fic ideas, and so I think I finally will. I like to have 2 fic projects going on at once really. That way it allows me to always be working on something different, cause I have fic ADD sometimes :T So look out for more of this and mebbe something new from me in the near future!

That said, lets see what fate befalls our beloved British Hero in this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_In which Arthur accepts a dubious invitation and sets out on a brave journey to meet with a monster most foul._

Arthur and Alfred whittled the morning hours away in bliss, chatting, eating, and sipping their coffee and tea. Arthur even forgot to watch the world go by outside the window, too absorbed in the conversation, laughing, and Alfred's strikingly handsome presence. Both lost track of time and the outside world completely, existing for a few hours in their own little world of good food and coy, flirtatious banter. With every passing moment they grew more comfortable challenging one another and retaliating, and made almost a sweetly playful game out of it. Late into the morning, and into the lunchtime rush, they talked, oblivious to everything else until finally, one of the cashiers behind the counter called Alfred's name and informed him he had a phone call. The duo realized at once they had collectively completely forgotten that Alfred had a previous engagement that afternoon with in-laws, and for the rest of the night. The author would be left to his own pleasures and devices for the rest of the day.

"Shit, that's probably Mattie. Sit tight, I'll be right back," Alfred snorted as he rose from his seat.

Disappointed their lovely morning had to come to a close, Arthur nodded with as much understanding as he could muster and idly began cleaning their table. Distantly, he could hear Alfred pick up the café's phone, exchange a few brief and tersely annoyed words with Matthew on the other end, and then finally hang up with an exasperated sigh. He trudged back to the table shortly after and joined the Brit in cleaning up, an equally dismayed half smirk on his face.

"I suppose you're in trouble with your brother now?" Arthur asked lightheartedly, despite his sadness.

Alfred chuckled and nodded as he mopped up crumbs and a bit of spilled coffee.

"Yeaaaah, he hates it when I'm late, especially to his family things. S'alright though, I'll just get him some of those fancy French chocolates he likes later and apologize and it'll be fine!" he casually rebuffed with a wave of his hand.

Arthur smirked a little and his cheeks colored a sweet pink as he stacked his dishes neatly.

"What about fancy French chocolates for me?" he ventured, boldly daring to flirt back at last after their eventually quite romantic breakfast.

Alfred looked up, stunned, and grinned slowly and wolfishly back at the other, gazing into his playful emerald eyes.

"You bet. Next time I see you, I'll have one of every kind they have for you to sample," he promised tenderly, reaching out and stroking his cheek with his thumb.

Arthur allowed himself to enjoy the sensation with a soft sigh, slowly discovering he didn't mind the American's bold advances quite so much the second day of knowing him.

"Does that mean you want to see me again?" he breathed hopefully.

"Definitely," Alfred replied without hesitation.

"Well good, you had better. I'm starting to wonder what the hell I'm even going to do in Paris without you," Arthur admitted sheepishly, looking away.

"A creative guy like you? You'll figure something out, I'm sure," Alfred snickered, grinning fondly at the sentiment.

His mirth was tragically short-lived, for he pushed back his sleeve absentmindedly to check his wristwatch and winced as he realized just how late he was.

"Damn, but I really am super late," he swore, flashing a grin up at his companion, "But I'll let you know when I'm free again, as soon as I can. Promise."

"Deal," Arthur agreed, and thrust a hand out for a parting shake, "See you around, then."

Alfred regarded the proffered limb for a moment, grinned, and while he did reach out and take it, his fingers clasped firmly over the slightly smaller hand, he gave a firmly graceful yank and hauled the unsuspecting blonde against his body. Before Arthur could even think of how to react, he swooped in and pressed his lips to his cheek, just mischievously grazing the corner of his mouth. They lingered for a brief, wonderful and terrifying moment frozen in time, and Arthur forgot to breathe as his heart hammered in his chest and became the only sound he could hear. He felt Alfred smile against his flushed skin, smelled his familiar scent of Lucky Strikes, rich leather, and a hint of crisp cologne, and then just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment ended. Alfred pulled away, winked, and saluted crookedly with one hand as he strode toward the door.

"Something to remember me by!" he called, holding a hand up in parting without looking over his shoulder, "See you around, Arthur!"

Too astounded to come up with anything more intelligent for a response other than a string of choked half words and nonsense, Arthur stood rooted to the spot, cheeks aflame, quivering with rage, embarrassment, and timid enjoyment of the all too ephemeral kiss. The heavenly tinkle of the café bell as Alfred left startled him out of his reverie, and his lower lid twitched indignantly as he balled his fists at his side.

"Damn it! I'll get you back for that, you git!" he screeched after him, heedless of the fact he was already halfway around the block.

After a moment, the confused stares of the cashiers behind the counter and the lunch customers just sitting down to eat clued Arthur in to the scene he had just made, and he hastily apologized in ineloquent French and made his flustered, fuming exit. He wiped his mouth and cheek furiously as he practically kicked the door open, the bell jangling in protest, and hurried down the street back to the hotel. Alfred certainly had a knack for spoiling perfectly lovely encounters with teasing him and getting him flustered, flushed, and at a loss for words.

The author fumed about it the entire walk back to Hotel Ècarlate, unsure how he felt, and even more unsure of how he should feel. It wasn't that Alfred was a man. He had always been attracted to men, he had simply never approached one. Nor had he ever approached anyone for that matter. The one short romance with a woman he enjoyed in college had been forcibly arranged by his friends, all of whom had been a tad too deeply concerned for his social and sex life, and had never been consummated at that. He simply had never imagined that his impromptu, mad adventure to France would begin with a handsome, devilishly charming man pursuing him so fervently. Strange new foods, snails and foie gras, fine wine to sip and decode the various carefully constructed bouquets of flavor, scandalous public displays of affection, art of the masters and inspiring artistry in everything, even the architecture; he had been prepared for.

Alfred Jones, he had not.

The only question that remained nagging peskily in the back of his brain, was whether or not he truly minded the American's adventurous spirit and cocky come-ons. The more he thought about it, the more the answer was a resounding, no, no he did not. For though Alfred could make him flush, snap, and snarl while his face burned red and his heart raced, it was exciting in a way nothing had ever excited him before. Despite his temper and Alfred's love of stoking it and provoking him, despite the name-calling and acrid words, even despite his seemingly constant belligerent rejection, Alfred still wanted him.

Feeling wanted was a warm, giddy sensation the oft unapproachable Brit could not recall ever having the pleasure to enjoy. It tingled through his psyche and his body simultaneously, fading his scowl into a private smile as a romantic, sweeping epic began to take shape in his mind. He could already see it so clearly; lush rich kingdoms, perhaps of the Elves, since he was so fond of fantasy, and their prince falling for the dashing, if a little uncouth, human adventurer through a series of accidental meetings leading to grand exploits and thrilling danger. He could see their faces, and hear their voices and witty banter in as much kaleidoscopic color and detail as Keiran's tale had come to him on the sweetly perfumed winds of inspiration. Arthur's heart was beating so fast and his mind was whirring so blindingly by the time he reached his hotel room, he forgot all he wanted to go back for was his camera. Instead, he hurled himself to the small desk beside the bed, yanked out the hotel stationary, and promptly filled several pages with notes, sketches, and bullet points.

Arthur sat back and admired the delicate, beautiful framework of his new creation just beginning to take shape, like a quivering rosebud only just flushed with color and promise of the glorious bloom it would become. A feeling of nostalgic accomplishment washed over him, and for the first time since his editor had asked him what he planned to do next, he felt like the brilliant author the world knew him as once again. Of course it was only just the seed of an idea, far from being the sophisticated epic allegory his previous saga had been, but it was a start, it was something, and Arthur packed it carefully away in his notebook to build upon as his trip continued. He then fetched his brand new camera he had purchased specifically for his journey, looped it round his neck and struck out into Paris proper to spend the rest of the afternoon as he pleased.

Paris, as the invigorated author would find, was far more breathtaking in person than a photograph or novel could ever hope to describe. Arthur spent the remainder of his day on foot, simply walking, photographing, and enjoying the city imbuing him with its indomitable spirit of decadence and beauty. The famed bridges, sprawling parks, flirtatious secretive little alleys and cobblestone rues all made for fascinating exploration, and coupled with feeling flush with creative power once more Arthur devoured the city until the sun slid beneath the exotic skyline and beckoned the night to follow. Left with no sunlight left for photography, he paused in a café for a light dinner and then made his way back to the hotel at a leisurely pace as the streetlamps flickered on coyly above him.

Night billowed over the city in a cool, diamond studded blanket of misty blue and held its breath for the one, magical moment of silent transformation between the Paris of the day, and the Paris of the night. Arthur had seen a glimpse of the creature of secrets and seduction she became once the sun went down, but left on his own and knowing almost nothing else of it he could think of nothing worthwhile to do with such a potent thing. The frustrating thought that Alfred would have likely known a good place to whittle away the evening hours nagged at the back of his mind, and he forced himself to banish both it and the light blush that rose in his cheeks. The American was busy with family, after all, and had not come to France for his amusement and company. He was perfectly capable of divining some manner of evening entertainment, even if it consisted of getting a pot of tea and curling up in his hotel room to work on his new novel idea.

Much to his dismay, his room back at Hotel Ècarlate he found was dark, stifled, and grotesquely quiet and desolate after the glorious day he had just indulged in. In the wake of the morning spent reveling in Alfred's warm and friendly presence accentuated by his boisterous voice and laughter and the subsequent afternoon in the music and color filled streets of the French capital, the austere little room was a veritable prison cell in the deepest dankest depths of some medieval torture chamber. The door slammed in protest through the painfully still air as the author closed it behind him, and his sigh was almost deafening in his own ears. He took his camera off his neck and wound the strap neatly, footfalls even on the worn carpet like the final march of a condemned man down a mocking concrete hallway.

Shafts of ruddy light fell from between the curtains and over the desk where he placed the camera after winding the spent film, whispering seductively in the voice of the night lurking just outside to beckon him out into its sinful embrace. Arthur ignored it, solemnly popped open the back compartment, and extricated the roll, sitting down heavily to stash it back inside its snug metal canister. The sound of the bedside clock ticking permeated the air, joined by the crisp metallic twisting of the film lid, and the longer Arthur spent sitting there, consoled only by minute and mundane noise, the more he knew he could not remain in his room. It was far too much like sitting in his old room back home, listening to the clock and idly striking the keys of his typewriter in no particular order, just to ward off the mind crushing silence that swallowed his creativity whole.

Despair tinting the corners of his mind, Arthur hurriedly emptied his pockets onto the table, searching for a pen to first label his film canister with the date before he forgot, and then his tightly folded paper map of Paris to search for something, anything, anywhere to go. The pen clattered onto the worn oaken desk, the jangling pile of keys and his pocketknife followed, and then the fluttering mess of receipts, cash, and his wallet all haphazardly stuffed away over the course of his adventure. He carefully slid out the bulky, rumpled map next and unfolded it ungracefully, but like a flash of divine light in the chaotic mess of his desperation, a flirtatious glimpse of blushing, naughty pink caught the corner of his eye as it tumbled from the mess and landed sweetly on the hard wood.

Arthur glanced over, and staring up at him with just as much coy invitation as the man who had given it to him, was the business card for '_Le Petit Oiseau Chanteur_'. His bushy brows gathered suspiciously over his eyes and he simply stared back at it, as if it would somehow detonate or maim him if he made even the slightest move to touch it. The card remained innocently on the table, and finally, he could stand looking at it mocking him no more and snatched it up. He gripped it viciously in both hands to tear it into confetti and deposit it in the nearest bin, but the smooth paper and the illustration only recalled the words of its purveyor earlier that morning.

Francis Bonnefoy with the smug grin, the golden locks and mischief filled blue eyes had slyly invited him to something that night; something that began at nine if he remembered correctly. Arthur spared the briefest of glances at the clock, which read only a few minutes before eight in the evening. Whatever it was, it opened at eight as well. If it wasn't far, he could easily make it on foot and not even have to waste the money and dignity to have a taxi take him to whatever seedy Paris brothel to which he had been invited. He scowled at himself for even entertaining the idea that he might actually be curious for even half a second and moved to tear the card again. Yet even as his fingers tightened and the muscles in his hands twitched, the card remained unharmed.

The author couldn't shake the sinking feeling that he had been challenged, that he held the proverbial thrown gauntlet in his hands, and Arthur Kirkland never backed down from a challenge. It had all been there, in Francis' smug grin, in his laughter and teasing words. He knew he never expected him to show up at whatever it was he was attending, and the disgust he had initially felt was slowly beginning to turn to a burning desire to prove the Frenchman dead wrong. Alfred was busy, it was his first night in the city, and he had not the slightest clue where to go anyway, so revenge seemed only the most logical course of action.

"Very well, _Francis Bonnefoy_," Arthur said to himself, spitting the name out like poison, "I accept your stupid little dare, and you won't emerge the victor this time. That much I promise!"

He grinned and smoothed out his map to locate 'The Little Songbird' on the web of streets, only to remember that most of the card remained completely blank without any semblance of an address or even a general area at all. Arthur stared at it a moment more, perplexed, until the large space at the bottom reminded him of what Francis had also hinted. A flame was needed to reveal the mysteries of the seductive establishment, or so it seemed. Arthur laughed heartily at the sheer juvenile cloak and dagger secrecy of it all like some fantastical treasure map or ancient secret leading on a long and perilous journey to find the very meaning of existence. It was like the beginning of one of the cheap dime store fantasy novels his parents had bought for him in his youth. They always started with some sort of cipher or riddle only the intrepid hero could decode.

Invisible ink was hardly a new invention, or even a novel concept. It had been in countless stories, and he and his mates back in primary school had concocted the stuff on more than one occasion with lemon juice to write secret notes back and forth about oppressive parents, girls they liked, new hiding spots in town and other earth shattering childhood secrets that were for one set of eyes only. Holding the paper carefully to a flame burned the juice a legible brown, which they always did with the utmost of clandestine ceremony, and after revealing the secrets they had always made sure to include the phrase one of them had heard once, 'burn after reading!' like they were some sort of band of secret agents.

Arthur smiled fondly at the memories as well as the feeling of adventurous nostalgia that washed over him as he groped around the desk for the complimentary pack of matches from the hotel. They were placed quite logically in the smoky glass ashtray and Arthur picked them up and snapped one neatly from the pack. His heart actually fluttered a little like a child's in his chest as he struck it and the head exploded into bright flame, illuminating his face and the desk area in warped, mystic shadows. The fire flickered and burned down contentedly, and only then did Arthur slowly bring the pink card as close as he dared to its unveiling heat.

For a moment he was convinced nothing would happen, that reality would come crashing back down upon him and he would remember that there was nothing magical or unreal about France, Francis, or the invitation into his world at all, but as the match burned dangerously close to the fragile paper, slowly, words and numbers written in looping, elegant script began to appear out of thin air. As if penned by an invisible hand, an address materialized on the blank section of the invitation. Arthur's breath caught in his chest, and he held it as he moved the match along the length and revealed the entire message letter-by-letter, line-by-line. Along with it came a small warning, which from his limited French Arthur guessed was instructing him to bring the card along with him when he came.

The author stared in wonder at the singed invitation, marveling so long at the still carefully crafted sepia words the match burned down to his fingertips. He dropped the charred twist of cardboard with a loud oath and shook out his fingers, putting them in his mouth. The pain dissipated quickly, especially after it reminded him he had a task at hand, and he set to charting his course. Arthur spread the map out neatly and first made certain to circle his hotel several times as to remember where it was. Then, he located the street and the address of the club, and deftly plotted out the shortest and most logical course from his location with all the robust precision of a seasoned adventurer. He admired his handiwork for a few moments with almost as much pride as the treasure maps he used to make as a child, and with almost that much excitement he gathered his effects back into his possession, snatched his map up, and bolted out the door and onto the street.

The lamp lit, darkened streets of Paris were far from deserted as the Brit set out, bushy brows furrowed in concentration and his map grasped preciously in both hands. He could scarcely wait to see what was so amazing about this place that Francis felt he would shock him or send the stuffy British prude screaming back into the night, and then promptly turn around and score the winning blow by completely humiliating him. He was British, and he had lived a rather sheltered life, but it was entirely presumptuous and obnoxious to assume he would be shocked and disgusted. It was only fair to retaliate after he had been teased for it so relentlessly, and, as Arthur begrudgingly admitted to himself, he was actually mildly curious about the whole affair. He had come to France to experience new things and expand his horizons, and there might even be an idea for his new novel somewhere in what was sure to be a filthy business. Perhaps a flamboyant villain of some kind, a bothersome troll or ogre with a foul odor and a comical accent.

A few Parisians spared the obvious tourist a smirk and a glance as he wended his way through the streets, map shamelessly in hand, but he paid them no mind, determined to get where he was going to untangle the mystery. He navigated the labyrinth of Paris on the sure, deft feet of an explorer, dauntless, intrepid, and bold, even as his path took him away from the bright main thoroughfares and into the spindly web of back alleys and ancient cobblestone rues. The path delved deeper into the darkness as he went on, past the glory of the city of lights and into the mysterious underbelly of the ancient and sly metropolis. Once or twice a scantily clad woman in a bustier and lace would purse her rouged lips and cast him an inviting look, but the gestures were all were lost on the author on a mission. As were the increasingly ruddy and sensual colors of the architecture and foliage, black drapes on coy windows, and distant strains of slow and sensual music drifting from unseen dens of indulgence.

Finally Arthur lifted his head to survey his surroundings and found himself too deep into the abyss to turn back, for he walked down the final stretch of road where his journey would end at last. The narrow street was illuminated with sparse wrought iron lamps, all of which were lit with red wax candles that flickered and danced as they cast their smoldering shadows on the ancient walls of the buildings lining the sidewalks. Above him, wire was strung between the rooftops and brilliantly colored streamers of silk, paisley, and every color of the rainbow hung from it, winking and waving flirtatiously in the cool night air. The path lay straight and gallant before him, leading the way through the final corridor and ending at the terminus of the alley where the words 'Le Petit Oiseau Chanteur' flashed in bright cursive neon from the smoky depths.

It materialized from the mists as if it had never been there at all, a mystic portal twisting time and space and leading to worlds and realms unknown. The sign sprawled ostentatiously over the elaborate façade that was crafted to look like a birdcage fit for some grand human peacock of royalty. Red and pink drapes cascaded down from the top of the enclosure and coquettishly obscured the entrance where Arthur could barely see dim light flooding out onto the street and hear the excited chatter of patrons against strains of an orchestra warming up in the background. A swing hung down from the top as well, just over the door, upon which an elegant gilded bird sculpture sat, its beak open in triumphant song and bearing a sign in its golden claws that read, 'Ouvert!' It beckoned him closer in unspoken, enticing words, but Arthur remained rooted to the pavement, staring in awe and drinking in the strange and wonderful sight like nothing he had ever seen before.

Beside the entrance and perched pleasantly on an old iron bar chair with his hands in his lap was a pale haired man with an obliviously cheerful smile. He was dressed in a heavy cloak with a scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, and at his feet sat a half empty bottle of vodka and a length of pipe with the spigot still attached. It was only fitting, Arthur mused, terrifying as he looked. All pathways seemed to require a guardian of some kind, every gateway a gatekeeper, all of which were fierce beasts with impossible riddles, maddening puzzles, and murder in their eyes. Nothing Arthur had not come prepared for, and it only made it all the more exciting. The blond Englishman found himself smiling eagerly as he gathered up all of his gumption and approached with purpose.

The doorman sat with his eyes closed, as if dozing, but upon hearing the loud footfalls echoing through the alley he opened them slowly, the bright violet irises glittering in the evening light. They trained on the approaching stranger and he drew himself up in the chair to be certain of catching his attention first.

"_Добрый вечер_!" he greeted in sweet, fluid Russian.

His voice was soft and airy, pleasant on the ears and altogether angelic, but something about it made a dull shiver run down Arthur's spine.

"Uh, good evening to you too!" he replied, assuming he was returning the same sentiment, "I say I think I've come to the right location. The uh, The Little Songbird? I was invited by a Mr. Fra-"

"Da, this is The Little Songbird. You have your invitation?" a thickly accented voice cut in, causing Arthur to jump.

He was surprised to say the least to hear English out of the stoic Russian who had not budged an inch, yet managed to make him feel as if he might be struck down on the spot into a smoldering pile of ash. So surprised, the pink card in his pocket slipped completely out of his mind.

"I, uh, well, the er-? The what?" he stammered.

A slow delighted grin spread across the innocently youthful face of the doorman as he rose to his feet.

"No one gets in without the invitation," he repeated, as happily as ever, leveling his gaze down at the other man suddenly dwarfed by his height.

Arthur's body went rigid, the blood rushed in his ears, and his mind momentarily ceased all coherent thought. He stood frozen to the spot, emerald eyes fixated on the bloodthirsty violet irises that bore straight through to his very soul and mouth making the motions of words but no sound making it past his lips.

"Don't you have one?" the Russian solicited, tilting his head.

Arthur finally managed to pat at his pockets blindly, but the doorman crouched down, hand outstretched for the pipe stashed beneath his chair.

"No wait!" Arthur spluttered desperately.

He forced himself to think again, having been quite unaware his life would be threatened, and mercifully the Russian stopped. The flustered blond finally recalled the pink card Francis had personally handed him, as well as the stern warning to remember to bring it that suddenly made infinite amounts of sense. He rammed his hand in his pocket and snatched it frantically into his grasp, then thrust it out in a hand he struggled not to allow to tremble violently.

"I've got it, I've got it!" he said loudly with a nervous chuckle, "S-Sorry about that, old chap! M-Must have slipped my mind where I put the bloody thing!"

Arthur swore he saw the cheerful smile turn distinctly disappointed for a moment before the doorman stood back up without his pipe and reached out and took the card from him. He thanked him in Russian, stashed it in his own pocket, and lowered himself gracefully back down into his chair with a gentle sigh.

"That's too bad," he bemoaned with a childish giggle, "I was hoping you wouldn't be having it so I could teach you a good lesson about coming in where you aren't invited."

Arthur blanched and took a pointed step back from the ever smiling Russian. He had no doubts at all he was completely serious.

"Well then, you may enter," he continued, looking pleased with the fright on the silent Brit's face, "Please to have a good time, _господин_!"

Arthur nodded mechanically and quickly stepped past the gatekeeper, having successfully passed his test. Beyond him lay the open cage door of the club, ready and waiting for him to pass through. The music and the voices still floated mystically from behind the velvet curtains and the intoxicating smell of incense, cigarettes, and perfume clouded his senses as he forged ahead. His mind had concocted a thousand different things that could be waiting for him inside The Little Songbird, and at last he could unravel its mystery and put to rest his curiosity and imagination that had to have been far more colorful and spectacular than anything that could be real. Arthur knew not what awaited him on the other side of the curtain and down the hallway into hell or Wonderland, but he drew in a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and pushed his way inside.

* * *

Ohohoho, is that a kolkol I see thar? Did I mention this was gonna be a pretty much whole cast fic? No? Surprise! 83 I always intended for all our beloved cast to show up! And now you can guess where hehehe. How do they all fit into this bizarre little boudoir of mystery? Just what in the hell is The Little Songbird? And where the hell is Francis? Find out next time!


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